Remembering Rob Reiner’s Masterpiece – Titus Techera

Rob Reiner has died, the director of seven hits and cult movies in the 1980s and 1990s, one of the rare achievements in Hollywood, not least for the variety of genres. The mock rock documentary This Is Spinal Tap (1984), the romantic comedies The Sure Thing (1985) and When Harry Met Sally (1989), for young and middle aged couples, the memoir of childhood Stand By Me (1986), the thriller Misery (1990), the military court room drama A Few Good Men (1992), and a children’s fantasy or romance, The Princess Bride (1987).

Reiner deserves to be remembered because he inspired great affection in millions and millions of people, for, as of now, two generations. Since it’s Christmas, it would be best to remember him by going back to The Princess Bride, which is less of its time than the other movies and more fitting for a family viewing. The screenplay was written by one of the legendary writers in Hollywood, William Goldman, from his own 1973 novel, The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure, The “Good Parts” Version.

You can tell already from the title that it’s supposed to be a comedy. Moreover, it’s suited to the modern mood, getting to the action, without long romantic descriptions of the scenery—or, for that matter, long passages explaining the feelings of the protagonists. Indeed, it’s an attempt to deal with a modern problem, that everyone by now knows how fairy tales end, so it’s difficult to avoid seeming naive, to effect surprise, or novelty, except by revealing that we’re all in on the secret.

Unlike Goldman’s knowing humor, Reiner, however, sweetens the medicine by beautifying the picture: Cary Elwes and Robin Wright star as winsome, blue-eyed blond youths falling in love with each other as we fall in love with them. The smaller parts are filled by impressive character actors who suitably contrast their grotesque and comical manner to the beautiful youths. Wallace Shawn plays the wicked, arrogant Sicilian assassin Vizzini. Wrestler Andre the Giant plays Fezzik, the innocent henchman who cannot fit in the ordinary world on account of his size. Mandy Patinkin plays Inigo Montoya, the noble sword master looking to avenge his beloved father, who is also a misfit on account of his terrible fate and his dominating passion.

But it’s not just the acting; invisible talents made the movie great, too. For example, Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits composed the music for the film. Andrew Biddle photographed it, just after his debut photographing James Cameron’s Aliens (1986). Even Reiner’s long-time editor, Robert Leighton, matters, both because the movie cuts between a frame story and the action and because Reiner likes to get laughs by the way he cuts. All in all, it’s a remarkably professional production for a children’s movie—much closer to old Disney productions than to many current movies.

Now, as to that frame story. The Princess Bride is the story of the civilizing of a thoroughly modern kid, that is, a prosaic kid by his grandfather. The boy, a captive audience vulnerable to the charms of storytelling because he’s sick at home, would prefer to be playing a computer game on TV, baseball, while wearing a Chicago Bears jersey. Anyone who has seen the ‘80s Bears play under Mike Ditka knows that this spells trouble. Just remember the ’85 season, going 15-1, shutting out opponents in the divisional and conference games, then winning Super Bowl XX 46-10. Such a boy is no doubt more interested in the rush of action than stories about a fantastic past or the power of beauty and, ultimately, true love.

It helps that the grandfather is played by Peter Falk, who became famous for playing the detective on Columbo. He’s a natural storyteller and comically sly, a throwback to the ‘70s. And it also helps that the grandson is played by Fred Savage, then eleven, at the beginning of his child actor career. Savage became famous, a year after The Princess Bride, for playing the protagonist in the nostalgia sitcom The Wonder Years, a coming-of-age story juxtaposed with the madness that overcame America from 1968 onward. Casting was one of Reiner’s finest talents—as a director and producer, he was very good at spotting young talent and helping actors make a name.

The boy’s desire for action, not to say violence, barely concealed by sports, is a desire to impose his will, which the computer game also suggests. These are the rules by which the ironic but kind grandfather must play when he brings out the old family favorite storybook. The old man says his own father had read it to him, and then he read to the boy’s own father, whom I presume is deceased. The story is about affecting a kind of continuity in the face of such trouble. A boy needs the authority of a man in his life, and nowadays, there’s just not a lot of that. This is the subtler theme of the movie.

The story the grandfather tells in that frame is more or less what every swashbuckling adventure should be. A brave young man has to save his beloved from a wicked prince and his henchman, played by Chris Sarandon and Christopher Guest. A man should be brave, a woman constant, friendship should be true, and justice should be done.

The boy, reluctant to entertain old-fashioned stories, especially if they might be “kissing books,” becomes quite serious about the story in the telling. He’s first afraid the princess might be in danger of her life, then that it wouldn’t be fair if she married the prince rather than her own true love, and finally that the daring young man, betrayed and tortured, might be murdered by the wicked prince. Gradually, the boy’s belief in justice and happiness comes out. The fairy tale does its job, even in the comic form, of marrying beauty and truth. The boy can come to the first step of self-knowledge. He even looks forward to the final kiss. He now cares for beauty in a way he wasn’t aware he did at first.

One unusual part of the story is the need for a pirate, indeed, the Dread Pirate Roberts. That fits in with the comedy. Our protagonist, Westley, becomes The Man in Black, a pirate of terrible fame. How else is he to acquire his skill with the sword and the gift for planning adventures? He learns to deceive and tell lies, which turns out to save his life as well as his beloved’s. In that, he resembles his antagonists, who are also pretty convincing liars; indeed, he outdoes the prince by bluffing him. Even lying turns out to require courage.

But the pirate is an image picked to appeal to the boy, who, to begin with, has no allegiances. His idea of freedom must not be much different from Huck Finn’s: to be by himself in the world. So also the story of the Spanish swordsman Inigo Montoya, avenging his father, must be made up to appeal to his own loss of his father, to turn weakness into anger. Whether or not this is the way to grieve, it is the way to bring spirit into a boy’s life. Even the other friendly character, Fezzik the bumbling giant, is an appeal to a common experience of boyhood, being told or feeling that one cannot do anything right.

More than the funny dialogue or the irony of pointing out the structure of a fairy tale, what makes The Princess Bride such a clever story is the skill with which it brings out what it feels like to be a boy and why modern life is not suited to educating the passions or skills needed to become a young man. This is the justification for the turn to fantasy, which in a way is a return—the nineteenth century brought together all these elements, the medieval stories retold as part of children’s education, the folk tales that address sentiment, the beautification that it was supposed to make up for the prosaic character of modern life.

Hence also the title, The Princess Bride, which names the object of love of beauty, not the boyish heart that learns to love beauty. There is, therefore, a kind of gentleness and discretion that goes along with all this cleverness. But that increases the danger that a story one learns to love as a boy should never be revisited in adulthood, to understand what it was intended to achieve, the sense in which it is a gift adults make to children that goes beyond the pleasure of hearing it told. The notion of passing on these stories from father to son suggests that one comes to see it from the other point of view.

The point of view of the artist, however, is neither quite that of the boy nor that of the father; it’s neither just wondering at a beautiful thing nor devising a certain kind of pedagogy. Storytelling is as interested in conflict and drama as in educating character. What is a kind of necessity of education—the grandfather tests the boy by reminding him that life is not fair—is also an opportunity for education, the beginning of studying the soul.