Review: "A Man for All Seasons:" A Biting, Brilliant Oscars Behemoth

Fred Zinnemann's underrated gem is the magnum opus of a cinematic legend.

April 27, 2024

In October 1066, near the southeast coast of England, invading Norman forces led by William the Conqueror defeated the native English forces of Harold Godwinson. William assumed the throne and ruled for 22 years until he died in 1087. Thus began centuries of conflict between his French descendants and the native Englishmen who contested their attempts to secure land and power.

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When these conflicts reached a fever pitch in the mid-14th century, the two nations waged the Hundred Years War, the 116-year conflict ultimately won by France thanks to a young girl whose divine visions spirited the army to a series of decisive victories: Joan of Arc.

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Historians debate the scope of her military contributions, but the ferocity with which she fought for the French cause, whether with sword, word, or vision, is undeniable. Her eventual capture, conviction for heresy, and fiery execution have cemented her as a wartime heroine, a symbol of patriotism for a country whose eventual victory in the conflict proved unifying for the nation. In truth, while she may have suffered delusions and her ultimate tactical impact overstated, she is a woman who believed in something, fought for it, and died for it.

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Sir Thomas More's story lacks the necessary flair to reach that level of historical infamy, and he certainly didn't invent martyrdom, but when he defied King Henry VIII’s Oath of Supremacy (which declared him Supreme Head of the Church of England, breaking from the Catholic Church), he got put on trial for treason and executed. It is not the story of defying corruption so much as what it stands for: a rejection of principles and ethics and forcing people to bend until they break.

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A Man for All Seasons, 1966's Best Picture winner, adopted by Robert Bolt from his acclaimed play of the same name, takes this approach. It does as many films do, glossing over the less rosy aspects of its historical subject to retain the story’s thematic integrity. More’s persecution of “heretics” during the Protestant Reformation is real, though the extent of his role and brutality are disputable. His devotion to his principles, however, is not.

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It's the challenge of all writing, adaptive or otherwise: how to elaborate on a theme and expand our understanding? Movies are visual history, a digital reenactment of life. Just as we find meaning in historical texts, we find it in movies. They are written by people who experience life as we do, and no amount of flowery dialogue and visual gimmickry will change that.

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It's what legitimizes A Man for All Seasons: it comes straight from the theater but leaves enough of it behind. It’s light on theatrics and heavy on wordplay but without compromising the integrity of its conversations. After all, a long phrase makes for a dull blade. A Man for All Seasons cuts its characters like a knife. Rich spars with Cromwell, who spars with More, who spars with Henry VIII, and on and on it spins. Everyone has a valid point, whether rooted in logic or ambition.

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The points they make: the legality of a pseudo-incestuous union between Henry and his first wife, More’s refusal to recognize Anne Boleyn as Queen of England (or Henry’s authority to make her so), and his family’s pleas for him to sign the oath before it’s too late, feel genuine because every word is genuine. In that sincerity, it can ask very pointed questions: what are our values worth? What concessions should we make to retain our principles? What sacrifices are worth our conscience? Is doing what we feel to be right the same as what we know to be right? What use is there in doing this “right” thing?

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The temptations we face are often rooted in their immorality. Many ache for the touch of a new lover as their current one waits at home or tremble at the sight of sweets after months of relentless dieting. Knowing what we want is wrong is the essence of wanting it altogether.

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But what happens when what we want cannot be argued? What of those times when our principles are truly principled, not ideals stitched together in a momentary search for righteousness? More isn’t a man of superior virtue, not in his mind. The choice is to take the oath or not, and he has simply chosen not. He understands the men around him have taken it for their reasons and at their discretion: their cause is not his cause, but a cause nonetheless. As he says in a bitter meeting with Cromwell, Norfolk, and the Archbishop, they cannot imply or infer from his silence what his intention is, only the intention not to do as they wish.

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We know the intent: it was revealed at More’s estate when his daughter’s lover comes to ask her hand in marriage. In More's view, he is a heretic, an unfortunate victim of the Protestant Reformation, quick to deride the king for his spiritual hypocrisy and assert his willingness to level the law to weed out evil. More stands and shoots back:

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“And when the last law was down, and the devil turned round on you, where would you hide, the laws all being flat?”

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More is right. We can debate his choice, but the logic is not debatable. Men cannot possess the power of right and wrong, verdict and edict, life and death. There must be a line in the sand where those in power cannot abuse the influence power affords them.

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Yet, as his family weeps in a dark, moldy cell, pleading with him to sign the oath, we wonder what can be worth your wife sobbing into your arms, knowing it's the last time she'll ever hold you? What can our values and principles be worth when your only child quietly ascends the staircase, knowing she must live without a father?

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That is the truth: they mean everything with the same force with which they mean nothing. Under cross-examination by Cromwell, More retorts that “The world can construe according to its wits. This court must construe according to the law.” It is true, but the court is made of men, and thus so is the law.

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More loses his head, Cromwell five years later. Norfolk was to face the executioner’s block the day after Henry VIII died: the king’s death proved his salvation, not Norfolk’s virtue. Only Rich, whose perjury secured the guilty verdict, lives on. He wins riches and favor, authority and influence. His soul is tainted in the eyes of God, but what is God to men? Was God of consequence to the king, who left the Catholic Church to wed another woman? What of Cromwell, whose ruthless machinations were so laced with moral bankruptcy that redemption seems like a dubious proposition? What of Rich, whose political bloodlust was so blinding that he betrayed the only man who truly cared for him? As More says in his final words to him, he sold his soul for Wales. Not the world: Wales.

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But is it true? Is God the great redeemer? Perhaps, but on Earth, life is decided by man, and if man says that virtue and principle do not matter, they don’t. When Thomas refuses to say why he won't take the oath, Norfolk urges More to sign as everyone else “for fellowship.”

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“And when we die, and you are sent to heaven for doing your conscience, and I am sent to hell for not doing mine, will you come with me? For fellowship?”

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No, nor would any of us. More is the mirror, Norfolk our reflection. We offer friendship when friendship is easy. We care when caring is easy. When it is hard, when the tide turns, when we’re called upon to do our conscience, we fail.

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In this light, More would seem like a divine entity, but he isn't. He never feels disingenuous or thin. He is right without not being wrong. He should consider signing the oath for the sake of his family. He should consider abandoning his principles to spare his life. At the same time, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t neglect his conscience for the whims of those too corrupt to have one of their own. It’s a tricky thematic tightrope. The film must walk it to justify More’s refusal to do the same, and it does.

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A Man for All Seasons is not the first of anything. It is not the first period piece or deliberately paced stage adaptation. It is not the first film to rely so heavily on words and so little on its audience. It is not the first film to tell the story of a man who died for a greater purpose.

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It is not William the Conqueror invading and claiming foreign lands or any of the kings that fought over them long after he was gone. It is not Joan of Arc, irrepressible in tenacity, fueled by self-proclaimed divinity. It is not even Sir Thomas More, pious in duty and immovable in morals. It is instead what films work best as: a simple story of simple truths. It does not lecture, trick, argue, or manipulate. It just exists, showing a path without telling us we must walk it. More is the man, the story his: even the truth is not ours to determine. We can only decide what our truth means to us. More decided for himself: A Man for All Seasons wants us to decide for ourselves, but without making the consequences of the decision vague. A movie cannot do better than that.