William Henry Redfield (1927-1976) was dying. He knew it, as did an on-set doctor, but he also knew that he had to finish what would amount to his cinematic swan song. Mr. Harding was, in fact, the role of his life, even though he’d previously rubbed elbows with Charles Bronson in Death Wish, as well as sharing the small screen with both Bea Arthur and Bob Newhart. He had one hell of a stage career, too; though, if he was to be remembered at all, it would be for this. This. A legendary film that would be one of only three motion pictures to capture the Academy Award “Big Five” (Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay). A movie that all but defined the 1970’s and every decade since, championing forever the notion that the cinema can be both edifying and entertaining – humorous and wise – with the cherry on top of memorable characters, dialogue, direction, and purpose.
Featured prominently on any sane filmgoer’s all-time top ten, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is, of course, a Jack Nicholson vehicle through and through, but it’s the supporting cast that truly makes it shine. Any one of ‘em – Turkle, Martini, Sefelt, Chief Bromden, the unforgettable Billy Bibbit – could make a strong case for Unsung inclusion, but I always knew, first and foremost, it had to be Harding. A man out of time. The guy who couldn’t hack it in the real world, so he voluntarily committed himself to a lunatic asylum where he could be top dog at last. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven, as they say. Full of self-righteous pomp, pretentious ire, and a fanatical need to be right, Harding found an environment teeming with the sort of passive subservience that would ensure he never lost an argument. Hell, they were unlikely to even start one. He had the knowledge. The vocabulary. The insight to bring about a level of control he never found on the outside. He was king. Until R.P. McMurphy showed up.
Consider the group discussions. Harding lorded over them all like a petty dictator, insisting that he and he alone pushed the agenda. After all, he had so much to work through. Was he a latent homosexual? Almost certainly. A misogynist? Without question. A cuckold time and time and time again, resulting from the standard impotence? Oh my yes. Never about genuine healing, these rants were forever and always attempts to confirm his centrality to any conversation. His complexity made him the most interesting man in any room and here, with a captive audience, he could insist with a ferocity impossible in any other context. Wives snapped back. Friends drifted away. Co-workers complained to HR. These poor dumb bastards had to listen, thanks to moderator Nurse Ratched. She could steer it all back in his direction where it belonged. And so she did, because she could see he was a gentleman. A sophisticate. A man who could leave at any time but chose to stay. Noblesse oblige, as he might say. With maximum affect, of course.
Only he couldn’t depart. Not really. He needed the predictability and order only a madhouse can provide. Life hurt. Faces turned away. Here, every waking hour was the same as the last, and his anal-retentive passion for schedules would finally be enshrined forever. Hit the sack, wake up, take your pill, go to therapy. Eat a bit, play some cards, then rinse and repeat. Avoidance as the ultimate succor. But, as stated, he never counted on McMurphy. A fly in the ointment. A real-world intrusion that threatened his unchecked reign. A rival both smarter and more charismatic, meaning he’d lose the hold on his men so fast, he could no longer fend off the contempt lurking beneath the surface. He’d be right back where he started, a time before he could spend a half hour lecturing the dummies about the difference between illusion and allusion. Now, he’s off his game. Rattled. Made to be the bad guy when all he wanted was a little respect codified into law. The law of his house. For Harding, it may indeed be the sunset of his years.
Naturally, McMurphy challenges all that for all the right reasons. That stick in your ass, while reasonably placed, has to be set free. Let’s go fishing. Play a game that doesn’t adhere to every goddamn rule in the book. Watch some baseball because no one ever thought of it before. Bring in some forbidden liquor and loose women to shake up the joint. Sure, even after McMurphy’s death and Bromden’s escape, Harding would likely continue in much the same manner, but he’d be altered at the margins. An unapproved outing can do that to a guy. So can an afternoon of basketball. And hell, maybe, if Bromden had the guts, he’ll find them somewhere, too, amidst the rubble of his shattered life.
Redfield, like John Cazale and Robert Altman, went out on top. Made his final statement his most important and lasting. No slog through low budget monstrosities. No slow fade into oblivion. A final character to stand toe to toe with the best of the best, preserved for anyone who still gives a shit. I only wish Oscar had paid attention, giving a dying man a little something to chew on before the grand silence. Still, I think he knew what he left us. A grand achievement not even leukemia could ever hope to diminish.
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