The Lower East Side actor born Jacob Julius Garfinkle who brought the street to Hollywood before the Method had a name for what he was doing — who played the working-class male condition with a psychological honesty that the studio system found uncomfortable and the HUAC found suspicious. He died at thirty-nine, two months after his HUAC testimony, with his heart failing and his career destroyed.
Portrait · John Garfield
Born Jacob Julius Garfinkle on March 4, 1913, in the Bronx, New York — the son of Jewish immigrants, raised on the Lower East Side after his mother's death when he was seven, placed briefly in an orphanage, reclaimed by his father, educated in reform school and on the street in roughly equal proportions. He discovered acting at the American Laboratory Theatre, studied at the Civic Repertory, and arrived at the Group Theatre in 1932 — the company that included Stella Adler, Lee Strasberg, Harold Clurman, and Elia Kazan, and that was inventing what would later be called the Method before it had that name or any agreed upon theory.
Warner Bros. signed him in 1938 and immediately tried to smooth out what the Group Theatre had put in. They failed. Michael Curtiz's Four Daughters (1938) — his film debut — gave him Mickey Borden, the cynical drifter whose energy disrupts a conventional musical romance so completely that the studio had to kill him off to restore the genre's order. He was nominated for the Oscar. The nomination confirmed that what the studio found uncomfortable was what the audience found essential.
Tay Garnett's The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946) — Garfield as Frank Chambers, the drifter who walks into a roadside diner, falls for the owner's wife, and conspires to murder the owner — established the film noir archetype of the working-class man destroyed by desire and moral vacancy, played with a physicality and psychological transparency that no other actor of the period brought to the role. Abraham Polonsky's Body and Soul (1947) — his production company, his Oscar nomination — gave him Charlie Davis, the Lower East Side boxer whose rise and contemplated fall is the most complete screen portrait of the working-class male condition the 1940s produced.
The House Un-American Activities Committee subpoenaed him in 1951. He testified as a friendly witness but refused to name names, which satisfied neither side and destroyed his career. He died of a heart attack — congenital heart disease, the death certificate said, though the stress of the preceding months was universally cited as a contributing cause — on May 21, 1952, in New York City. He was thirty-nine years old. Abraham Polonsky said that HUAC had killed him as surely as if they had put a bullet in him.
Frank is not evil but insufficient — the man whose desires are stronger than his will, whose capacity for feeling is not matched by any capacity for moral navigation. Garfield plays the insufficiency as physical fact: the body wants what it wants, and the mind rationalises whatever the body requires. The chemistry with Turner — which the studio attempted to suppress and the camera refused to conceal — is the film's argument: that desire of this intensity produces its own logic, and the logic is fatal.
Charlie's situation — the champion who must choose between what he has achieved and what it cost him — is played by Garfield with the full biographical weight of a man who grew up on the Lower East Side and understood from the inside what the options were and what each of them meant. The film's final scene — Charlie refusing to throw the fight, walking out of the ring past the gangsters who own him, saying "What are you going to do, kill me? Everybody dies" — is the most complete statement of Garfield's specific quality: the man who knows the cost and pays it anyway.
Joe Morse's corruption is not dramatic but institutional — the lawyer's deal with the criminal system is what lawyers do, rationalised in exactly the terms lawyers use, and Garfield plays the rationalisation as a living psychology rather than a moral lesson. Polonsky's script was written in iambic pentameter; the critics who noticed this were accused of pretension; it is in fact the reason the film's dialogue sounds like nothing else in 1940s Hollywood — heightened, rhythmically distinct, and entirely natural in Garfield's mouth.
Mickey Borden has to be killed off because the genre cannot accommodate him — his energy disrupts the conventional romantic arrangements so completely that the film's resolution requires his removal. The studio understood this as a structural problem; the audience understood it as a loss. His debut Oscar nomination is the clearest possible evidence that what the studio wanted to manage was exactly what the audience wanted preserved.
What are you going to do, kill me? Everybody dies.
John Garfield's legacy is Body and Soul's final scene — "What are you going to do, kill me? Everybody dies" — and the HUAC testimony that came four years later, in which the same refusal to capitulate produced a different result. Charlie Davis walks out of the ring past the gangsters who own him; Garfield refused to walk out of the HUAC hearing past the committee members who wanted names; the outcome of the second refusal was his career, and then his life.
The two Oscar nominations and the body of work between them constitute the argument for what was lost. Brando and Dean absorbed the Method credit that Garfield had earned before either of them arrived in Hollywood; the Lower East Side boy who had done it first, from biographical necessity rather than technique, died before the culture was ready to acknowledge what he had been doing.