When I first saw Fritz Lang’s BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT (’56), I remember being engrossed by its calculated, improbable plot and twist ending. In re-visiting it recently, however, I found myself struck more so by some modern-day parallels I recognized in the story. While fundamentally a genre exercise that ultimately trivializes the hot button topic it broaches, the film nonetheless raises issues regarding media and criminal justice that continue to resonate.

In BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT, novelist Tom (Dana Andrews) joins forces with his future father-in-law, newspaper publisher Austin (Sidney Blackmer), for an experiment: to prove the fallibility of circumstantial evidence by exposing how an innocent man could be sentenced to death. To do so, they frame Tom for a murder they’ll later prove he didn’t commit. Tom’s fiancée Susan (Joan Fontaine) isn’t in on the scheme; only Austin knows the truth. Sure enough, their carefully laid plan results in the death penalty for Tom, but when Austin dies in a freak accident, destroying the exonerating evidence with him, Tom has to scramble to prove his innocence. The film ends with a twist that I’ll discuss in a moment, so if you dislike spoilers, I suggest you stop reading, watch it and come back!

Heavy on plot and light on character, the film spends most of its 80 minutes mounting Tom as the fall guy. He and Austin deposit pieces of evidence, such as Tom’s personalized cigarette lighter at the murder scene, and photograph each action to corroborate their story. The methodical way they record their every move is analogous to the modern-day practice of digitally capturing evidence to substantiate controversial events. As we’d say today, Tom and Austin were ready to bring the receipts – until the inadvertent destruction of their tangible proof almost derails their experiment.

Austin is a fierce advocate against capital punishment, yet he doesn’t want his paper showing bias. Following his death, though, Susan pressures her father’s associates to “use the newspaper in every way you can” to swing support in Tom’s favor. Many present-day news outlets are charged with similar partiality. When it comes to high-profile trials today, clips and photos, especially those shared on social media (the new court of public opinion), play a huge role in the accused’s perceived innocence or guilt.   

Near the end of BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT, evidence finally verifies Tom and Austin’s story. With a pardon within his reach, Tom unwittingly mentions the victim’s real name to Susan, proving he knew her and actually did it, ingeniously taking advantage of Austin’s offer so he could off an estranged wife. Susan turns him in, and we are to assume he will be executed as the film fades to black.

So, what does this say about the experiment? In a way, it could prove Austin’s point, because Tom’s sentence resulted solely from evidence he and Austin planted. We’re to believe that any actual innocent man could have participated in Austin’s ploy and received the same condemnation. Though the guilty party ultimately pays for his crime, the system shouldn’t get credit. In fact, an exhaustive investigation found nothing to link Tom with the victim – if it weren’t for him indicting himself, he’d get off. How’s that for justice?

“My argument against capital punishment is that the law forces some other man to commit murder,” Fritz Lang remarked in a 1969 interview. From the start, Lang disagreed with the script’s convoluted direction and the fact that the audience roots for Tom the whole time, only to reveal – out of nowhere – that he’s despicable at the end. Lang butted heads with producer Bert E. Friedlob, especially over the opening execution scene, which Friedlob wanted to make convincing. Lang agreed that a realistic portrayal was a powerful argument against capital punishment, but he did too good a job; when Friedlob saw the result, he denied his initial directive and rebuked Lang for being so cruel. So contentious was their partnership that the director coldly recalled shooting the movie “under duress” and left Hollywood for good after he helmed his final scene.

The topic of capital punishment has long been contended. Writer Douglas Morrow, who held a master’s degree in law, penned the film’s original story after reading a 1955 Gallup poll that revealed an even divide on the death penalty among Americans. That division may well have stemmed from protests in the 1950s and 1960s, which led to a decline in executions. In the movie, Austin remarks that six states did not have the death penalty in 1956; today, it’s illegal in 23 states. 

That progress aside, Austin’s fear that the system could mistakenly put an innocent man to death is genuine. Since 1972, at least 185 death row prisoners have been wrongly convicted and set free, per DealthPenaltyInfo.org. Even more tragically, it’s been concluded that some executed inmates were most likely innocent. While the death penalty may be utilized less today, it’s as clear as it was then that miscarriages of justice persist, something BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT chillingly reminds me of, even if the film is less a statement on capital punishment than Lang perhaps wanted.

Throughout World War II, Hollywood cranked out countless feature-length films, animated shorts, radio programs and various government-sanctioned propaganda in support of the war effort. These films ranged from serious dramas set on the frontlines of battle, to lighter romantic comedies featuring servicemen on leave, to glimpses of how families were coping on the homefront. After the war ended in September 1945, it was back to business as usual for Hollywood cranking out splashy musicals, costume dramas and comedies. Of course, there were movies that focused on the post-war experience for Americans—settling down, having children and moving from the big city to the idyllic picket-fenced suburbia—but most of these films either glossed over or completely ignored the struggles of servicemen returning to civilian life, as well as the strain placed on their families, desperate to reclaim years of lost time while remaining hopeful for the future. One Hollywood director understood the importance of telling the stories of these servicemen and their families, drawing upon his own harrowing experiences during the war and his acclimation back to civilian life: William Wyler.

In 1942, months after the United States entered World War II, William Wyler voluntarily joined the United States Army Air Forces, serving as a major in the Army Pictorial Service, which produced educational and propaganda films to promote the war effort. During his service from 1942 to 1945, Wyler and his assembled crew filmed hours of footage from the air, resulting in two documentary films. The first was THE MEMPHIS BELLE: A STORY OF A FLYING FORTRESS (1944), the story of the crew of a Boeing B-17 bomber, which Wyler accompanied on numerous dangerous missions in enemy territory; the second was THUNDERBOLT (1947), a profile of a P-47 fighter squadron. During the filming of both documentaries, Wyler and his film crew faced extremely dangerous conditions, with the director’s cinematographer Harold J. Tannenbaum killed during one perilous mission. While Wyler returned home safely at the end of his service, he did not do so unscathed. During his time with the P-47 squadron in the Mediterranean, Wyler lost consciousness and suffered severe nerve damage in one of his ears, resulting in a total loss of hearing. Eventually, Wyler was able to regain partial hearing with the help of a hearing aid, but the problem affected him for the rest of his life.

Like his fellow Hollywood filmmakers who also served during World War II—John Ford, John Huston, George Stevens and Frank Capra—Wyler wasn’t quite sure how to proceed with his directorial career upon his return. However, it wasn’t long before the perfect project landed in Wyler’s lap: an adaptation of MacKinlay Kantor’s novella Glory for Me, a story of three servicemen returning home after the war and the various struggles they face as they acclimate to civilian life. Produced by Samuel Goldwyn, with an adapted screenplay by Robert E. Sherwood, Kantor’s story became THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES (1946)—Wyler’s most personal film and a loving tribute to the men he served alongside during his three years at war, as well as the families those servicemen left behind.

What makes THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES so unique is its unflinching look at the harsh realities faced by returning veterans. These were men whose lives and careers were upended with absolutely no warning; their plans for the future put indefinitely on hold; their jobs and very livelihoods stripped away from them with no promise of return. They were expected to fight, regardless of their civilian professions. In the case of the three servicemen portrayed in THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, a successful banker is relegated to the frontlines of the Pacific as a sergeant (Fredric March as Al Stephenson); a high school football star finds himself in the belly of a Navy destroyer (real-life veteran Harold Russell as Homer Parrish); and a soda jerk finally finds purpose as a captain for the Army Air Force (Dana Andrews as Fred Derry).

Each man does what he must to not only serve his country, but survive, so as to return home to the lives they had before the war. However, war is cruel, and although they survived, their battles are far from over. The good will and patriotism that was worn on the sleeve of every American has faded as life returns to normal. But what is normal anymore for these men and their families? Are they really expected to pick up exactly where they left off when nothing is truly the same as it was before? Why can’t people understand what they’ve been through?

Wyler carefully explores the journey of these three servicemen as they try to find their place in this new post-war world, amidst dealing with their own personal demons, from self-medicating with alcohol; dealing with horrid PTSD flashbacks with little to no support and certainly no treatment (in an era when this was hardly taken seriously and afflicted veterans were expected to simply “snap out of it”—and is unfortunately still a problem today); and reclaiming some form of independence after serious physical injury.

But it’s not just the veterans’ stories that Wyler tells here. He also empathetically shows the struggles of their families, overjoyed yet guilt-ridden that they are the lucky ones in welcoming their heroes back home, while also silently cursing years of lost time and mourning for the simplicity of life before the war. No other film so delicately balances the patriotic call of duty, its sacrifices and the utter destruction of personal lives like THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES. It’s devastating and emotionally raw, and yet there is hope. These men and their families are strong. William Wyler knew firsthand what these servicemen were made of and he gives them the happy ending they deserve.