William Wyler: A Director of Few Words

I've been thoroughly been enjoying the many entries in the William Wyler blog-a-thon that Goatdog has so graciously put together, so I thought that I would add my two cents on one of Hollywood's most accomplished auteurs.
To think of William Wyler, one will inevitably think of actors, and the myriad of performers he has left his brand upon. Picking one of them seemed a Herculean task-how does one pick between the star-is-born (both on-and-off-screen) antics of Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl, the crushed naivety of Olivia de Havilland in The Heiress, the mannered perfection of Greer Garson’s Mrs. Miniver, Audrey’s joyous vacation in Roman Holiday or the wounded veterans of The Best Years of Our Lives? I couldn’t possibly pick between the bunch, but one thing struck me about each of these films when I first thought about them. The wordless, haunting and effective scenes that first came to mind when I thought about the movies; Wyler, more than hardly any other mainstream director, knew the power and effectiveness of a quiet moment.
Recall, perhaps The Best Years of Our Lives. Is there anything in Myrna Loy or Fredric March’s performances that is as telling as those haunting glances they give each other showing a sense of lost intimacy and fear that it has forever been lost in a blood-washed field across the ocean? Or perhaps Cathy O’Donnell’s mingled looks of compete adoration and desperation as she undresses the love of her life?
Best Years may in fact be Wyler’s most emotional film (I mean that as a high compliment), but each of his films have that moment where the heart soars or crumbles or thumps, and each of these scenes are largely wordless. Olivia de Havilland’s horrifying ascent up the stairs (and obvious descent into a black depression she will never retreat from) is all about her determined, moon pie eyes and strong lower lip. Greer Garson’s steely face as she’s being robbed is a harried, steely pierce that shows the audience that she’ll be able to survive anything, even as she’s being held captive.
Wyler’s characters also tell their heartbreak with little more than a curt sentence or fake smile. Streisand’s stone-faced gazes at her Nicky show that she knows that she’ll never be this happy again, and it could so easily slip away. Laurence Olivier captures the eternally hungry character of Wuthering Heights, exhibiting his complete misguided devotion to Catherine with hardly a word, but more a vengeful array of huffs and darting eyes.
To conclude this laundry list of moments, I should probably present my favorite, that being the final scene of Roman Holiday. Wyler’s script is largely relegated to anonymous members of the press corps, coming to grab a last moment with Princess Audrey before she leaves behind Rome, and yet Wyler spends most of his camera time balancing between the delicate beauty of Audrey Hepburn and the chiseled beauty of Gregory Peck. Hepburn’s face shifts only slightly through the scene, and yet the audience is able to experience a gamut of her emotions, ranging from confusion at first to betrayal to adoration and finally true heartbreak. As Audrey Hepburn turns around and gives her one true love a gaze, her heart broken, all that she can do is smile a wide grin, covering up the internal tears. A less capable director would have shown the beginnings of tears, but Wyler doesn’t saturate the scene, instead letting it simmer. He’s already hit every emotional button, now all that is left is to fade to black. It’s a near flawless moment from a director who more than once flirted with silent perfection.