The year after World War II ended brought the first dramas to look at the plight of returning veterans trying to readjust to civilian norms. The Best Years of Our Lives was the big hit that year, but there were others, too. The title song in Till The End of Time, which was adapted from a Chopin polonaise, snakes through the movie wearing many skins, from saraband to Swing, constituting one of the more effective leitmotifs of 40s-movie scores. The story centers on Guy Madison, returning from the Pacific to his Los Angeles family. His parents expect the boy who left, not the man (physically, at least) who came back; they recoil when he wants to share his experiences in battle. So he starts to rebel against their sheltered and complacent life but has little idea of what to do with his own.
His love life is riven as well. One the one side there's the brash bobby-soxer next door, symbolizing what he used to be; on the other is weary war-widow Dorothy McGuire (among her most affecting roles), another survivor of the horrors of combat.
It's tempting to assume that Madison landed this meaty role (he's constantly on screen) solely because of his looks -- extraordinary, even by Hollywood standards. But he delivers a natural, if a bit bashful, performance. Only when buddy Robert Mitchum resurfaces halfway through the movie does he suffer by comparison. As a black sheep with a steel plate in his skull, Mitchum strikes the sparks that would ignite his long stardom; Madison, while pleasant and competent, comes up with nothing new and starts to grow monotonous (his career took him to TV westerns and European cheapies).
Director Edward Dmytryk (Murder, My Sweet; Back to Bataan) tones down for this leisurely character study, which remains absorbing and at times close to moving. He missteps once, very near the end, when a blast at bigotry comes flying out of left field, and he probably had to settle for the upbeat ending the studio wanted. But it was left to film noir, which dealt with similar issues obliquely (Blue Dahlia, Act of Violence, Dmytryk's own Crossfire) that probed them more profoundly.
His love life is riven as well. One the one side there's the brash bobby-soxer next door, symbolizing what he used to be; on the other is weary war-widow Dorothy McGuire (among her most affecting roles), another survivor of the horrors of combat.
It's tempting to assume that Madison landed this meaty role (he's constantly on screen) solely because of his looks -- extraordinary, even by Hollywood standards. But he delivers a natural, if a bit bashful, performance. Only when buddy Robert Mitchum resurfaces halfway through the movie does he suffer by comparison. As a black sheep with a steel plate in his skull, Mitchum strikes the sparks that would ignite his long stardom; Madison, while pleasant and competent, comes up with nothing new and starts to grow monotonous (his career took him to TV westerns and European cheapies).
Director Edward Dmytryk (Murder, My Sweet; Back to Bataan) tones down for this leisurely character study, which remains absorbing and at times close to moving. He missteps once, very near the end, when a blast at bigotry comes flying out of left field, and he probably had to settle for the upbeat ending the studio wanted. But it was left to film noir, which dealt with similar issues obliquely (Blue Dahlia, Act of Violence, Dmytryk's own Crossfire) that probed them more profoundly.