I
wonder what Abe Lincoln would think about all the fuss with Steven Spielberg’s
epic movie, “Lincoln.”
I
can hear a reporter asking the ghost of Mr. Lincoln, “Did you ever think your
popularity would soar even beyond its already lofty heights? And, how does this
development affect your assessment of your own place in history?”
I
can see Lincoln smiling wryly as he whirls a swivel chair around, straddles it,
and leaning over its back, says in a high pitched, piercing drawl, “Well, it
reminds me of the story about the backwoods preacher in Hardin County, Kentucky,
back in 1850. Seems his church voted him the most humble pastor in America, and
they gave him a medal that said, ‘To the most humble pastor in America.’ Then they
took it away from him on Sunday because he wore it.”
The
reporter chuckles as Abe then makes his point: “I did what I believed was right
in 1864, and I took the necessary steps to abolish slavery, and no movie’s popularity
or movie critic’s predictions of Academy Awards will change my humble
assessment of my strengths and weaknesses. I did what I did.”
In
reality, Spielberg’s “Lincoln” is not only endearing; it’s enduring (and I’m
not referring to its length: two and a half hours): It stays with you long
after you've left the theater. Spielberg brings Lincoln to life like no film
about the 16th President has done. But the movie is not about
Lincoln’s life. Rather, Spielberg narrows the time to the beginning of
Lincoln’s second term, specifically, the fall of 1864 to January 1865, when the
war was coming to an end, and Lincoln wanted to assure the passage of the
Thirteenth Amendment, which would make slavery unconstitutional. The movie’s
drama revolves around what Lincoln does to get the necessary votes in the House
of Representatives for the amendment’s passage.
Much
of Lincoln’s genius, in addition to his political acumen---he could cajole, he
could coerce; he could stand firm, he could be flexible; he could demure, he
could demand---was his ability to make a point with a story, endearing himself
to both supporters and opponents. He was a master of the anecdote. Through it
all, he was resolute in achieving his goal: the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment.
People
sometimes had trouble understanding why he used so many stories. There is a
splendid scene in “Lincoln,” where Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton (Bruce
McGill) has lost patience with Lincoln’s penchant for spinning a yarn: “No,
you’re not going to tell a story. I can’t bear to hear one,” Stanton bellows as
he storms out of the room.
Lincoln
slowly smiles and proceeds to tell another story.
Now
let’s return to that imaginary reporter as he walks alongside Lincoln outside
the cinema after a late night showing of Spielberg’s “Lincoln.” The reporter
presses the President: “Political pundits each have their ‘take-away’ from this
movie. What’s yours, Mr. Lincoln?”
Lincoln
stops, pauses, turns to the reporter, stares him the eyes, and you guessed it,
tells another story.
“It
happened five years before my death,” he begins, “in the fall of 1860. The
steamship, ‘Lady Elgin,’ was en route from Chicago to Milwaukee when a lumber
schooner rammed her, sinking the ship, accidently killing 279 passengers and
crew members. It seems a student at Northwestern University, a young man by the
name of Edward Spence, made 16 trips from the shore to the sinking ship, saving
17 lives. The young man suffered from shock, and as they carried him to the
hospital---and by the way, as a result of his heroics he would spend the rest
of his life in a wheelchair, not one of the 17 he saved ever returning to thank
him---he kept asking a question, kept asking over and over, ‘Did I do my best?’”
The
puzzled, slack jawed reporter looks up to Mr. Lincoln, “Are you saying that you
did your best to preserve the union, or are you questioning if we the people
have done our best for this nation and the cause of liberty for all---regardless
of race, religion, or sexual orientation?”
With
a twinkle in his eye, a satisfied smile breaks across Lincoln’s wrinkled face
as he stares above the reporter, gazing at the stars.
And
we know the answer to the question lies in yet another story.
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