The Hollywood of Frank Capra's era, when Reagan became a minor

“The Hollywood of Frank Capra’s era, when Reagan became a minor star, sold the world an image of American pith and patriotism in many ways as defining as the moon landing or the A-bomb.” So declares Joy Reid, calling us to remember that nations are not shaped only by armies or inventions, but by stories—those glowing images cast upon the silver screen, where dreams and myths are woven together and carried across the earth like fire in the night.

For in the time of Capra, cinema was not merely entertainment; it was a mirror and a torch. In films such as Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and It’s a Wonderful Life, Capra painted visions of integrity, resilience, and hope. These stories carved into the soul of America an image of itself—an image of ordinary men rising to noble heights, of communities bound together in hardship, of justice struggling against corruption. This was pith, the marrow of a people, not adorned in pomp but steeped in virtue. Through these films, the nation taught itself, and the world, who it believed it was, and who it longed to be.

It was within this same age that a young Ronald Reagan, before he was a president, was but a minor actor, yet he too was carried by this tide of cinematic myth-making. Hollywood, in those days, did not simply display Americans—it sculpted them, turning farmers into heroes, soldiers into saints, neighbors into the guardians of liberty. And though Reagan’s roles were modest, the spirit of that era shaped the man who would one day become the voice of “morning in America.” Thus we see how art lays the foundation upon which politics and history are later built.

Reid tells us that these stories were as defining as the moon landing or the A-bomb. For just as the rocket declared mankind’s reach into the heavens, and the bomb revealed mankind’s fearful power over death, so too did Hollywood’s golden tales proclaim America’s identity to the world. A people is not known only by its conquests or its machines, but by the stories it dares to tell. And Capra’s America dared to tell of decency, of sacrifice, of a patriotism rooted not in conquest, but in character.

Consider also the example of the moon landing. In 1969, when Neil Armstrong set foot upon lunar soil, the world marveled not only at the science, but at the story—the narrative of a free people who dared to reach beyond the sky. This same power of narrative was already at work in Capra’s era, though on screens instead of in space. What defines a nation endures not merely in fact, but in imagination. Facts fade; stories endure.

And yet, we must remember that every image, however radiant, is a crafted one. Hollywood offered to the world not the fullness of America, but its shining self-portrait, painted in ideal strokes. The task for future generations is to discern: what in that portrait is truth, and what is myth? To embrace the noble ideals while recognizing the shadows left unseen. For every Capra hero, there were voices unheard, communities unseen. True patriotism is not the blind worship of an image, but the constant refining of that image toward greater justice and inclusion.

Thus, the lesson is clear: nations must guard the stories they tell, for those stories will shape their destiny. Let us then tell stories of courage, of compassion, of unity, that the world may see not only our power, but our heart. And in our own lives, let us live as though we are characters in such a noble tale: speak truth when silence tempts you, defend justice when corruption encroaches, lift others as Capra’s heroes lifted their neighbors. For history remembers not only what we build or destroy, but the spirit we embody.

So carry forward this truth: the stories we tell are as mighty as rockets, as terrible as bombs, as enduring as monuments. Hollywood in Capra’s era taught this to the world; now it is for us to decide what stories we shall give to the generations yet unborn.