Watching the movie this year, though, I found that it landed very differently. It read even more darkly. What struck me this time was the dreams’ manner of death: They were extinguished not in an instant, but by repeated dousings. George, played by James Stewart, is a hero whose journey is quite often stuck in the “being tested” phase of things. He tries, so hard, to have adventures away from his small hometown; circumstance, again and again, keeps him homebound. The recurrent nature of his trials seems especially acute right now. The pandemic that looked, earlier this year, like it might be under control has resurged with a new variant. The chance leaders had to do the bare minimum to forestall the planet’s furies has been squandered once again. American democracy, new and ever-fragile, is under threat once more. George Bailey was never just George Bailey; he has always doubled as a collection of decidedly American metaphors. This year, though, he looks more like an omen…

George reconciles himself. He gives up one dream for the one he had never thought to want: a wife who reliably sees the bright side of their misfortunes, children who are devoted to him, a community full of people whose lives have been made better because of him. Does that amount to a happy ending? Maybe. Seventy-five years later, It’s a Wonderful Life can be understood as an exploration of some of America’s fondest myths: that individual sacrifices will be rewarded; that capitalism can be controlled by people of goodwill; that communities will come together by the time the credits roll. It can also be seen as putting forth the great-man theory of history, realized by an everyman: George’s existence, Clarence makes clear, changed everything—for his family, and for his town, and for his country. George’s sacrifices prevented Potter from taking over Bedford Falls. The continued existence of the building and loan allowed community residents to buy their own homes, rather than living as Potter’s tenants. Harry fights in World War II, saving lives in the process—there to help others because George, all those years ago, had been there to help him.

The film is a relic of an America, post-Depression and postwar, that was earnestly animated by notions of sacrifice and the common good. Its continued urgency, though, comes from its sense of how vulnerable everyone—even the heroic George Bailey—can be to twists of history. One moment, George is at a party, his adventures ahead of him and his dreams waiting to be claimed … and the next, the ground has retracted beneath him. The only thing he can do, the film suggests—the only thing that will keep him safe from despair—is find a way, despite it all, to keep dancing.