30 Movies to Get You Through the Holidays

John Huston was dying when he directed The Dead. Tethered to an oxygen tank, hunched in a wheelchair, weak with emphysema and heart disease, he was a perfectionist attentive to the slightest nuance of the filming. James Joyce’s story, for that matter is all nuance until the final pages. It leads by subtle signs to a great outpouring of grief and love, but until then, as Huston observed, “The biggest piece of action is trying to pass the port.” He began shooting in January 1987, finished in April, and at the end of August, he died. He was 81.

All of this I have from The Hustons, by Lawrence Grobel, a biography that charts a scattered and troubled family, yet one that gathered Oscars in three generations, for Walter, John, and Anjelica. John’s daughter won hers for a supporting role in his previous film, Prizzi’s Honor (1985), and now she was playing the crucial role in The Dead. John’s son Tony, then thirty-seven, was nominated for his screenplay for The Dead, and served as his father’s assistant, aware of the secret being kept from the world, which was how ill John really was.

Joyce’s The Dead is one of the greatest short stories in the language, but would seem unfilmable. Its action takes place in Dublin in 1904 at a holiday party given by two elderly sisters and their niece, who have spent their lives performing or teaching music. The guests arrive, we observe them as they observe one another and listen to talk that means more than it says. At the end of the long evening, Gabriel Conroy (Donal McCann), nephew of the Misses Morkan, leaves with his wife, Gretta (Anjelica Huston), to go back to the hotel where they will spend the night before going home to a far suburb in the morning.

All was prologue to their cab ride and an hour or so in the hotel. She tells him a story he has never heard, about a boy who was sweet on her when he was seventeen, a boy named Michael Furey, who died. He was a sickly boy, who stood in the rain on the night before she was to leave Galway and go to a convent school. “I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get his death in the rain,” she remembers. “But he said he did not want to live.” When she was only a week in the convent school, he died. “What was it he died of so young?” asks Gabriel. “Consumption, was it?” She replies, “I think he died from me.” In his final pages, Joyce enters the mind of Gabriel, who thinks about the dead boy, about his wife’s first great love, about how he has never felt a love like that, about those who have died, and about how all the rest of us will die as well—die, with our loves and lusts, our hopes and regrets, our plans and secrets, all dead.

Read with me James Joyce’s last paragraph:

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.