GONE WITH THE WIND Explained: A Controversial Icon
…—some spicy, others intriguing, and still others in their own way melancholic. The journey to creating Gone with the Wind was long and tumultuous, but it ultimately resulted in a film that is more than a masterpiece of cinematic art—it is a true monument to the Golden Age of Hollywood and the rules that governed it unchallenged.
The astounding popularity of Gone with the Wind published in 1936, which earned its author, Margaret Mitchell, a Pulitzer Prize, practically guaranteed its adaptation to the big screen. The power of the book—and later the film—proved so overwhelming that it successfully convinced thousands of readers worldwide of the authenticity of its portrayal of the Old South. It also cemented in their consciousness the myth of the Lost Cause of the Confederacy, much to the dismay of scholars and experts of the era.
The driving force and ultimate decision-maker throughout the filming process was the producer, David O. Selznick. In essence, this is primarily his film—regardless of who ultimately took the director’s chair. George Cukor, quickly dismissed from the role, was replaced by Victor Fleming, who, due to exhaustion, briefly gave way to Sam Wood. In the end, it was Fleming whose name appeared on the posters as the director, but the puppet-like nature of this role in the case of Gone with the Wind was widely known even before the film’s official premiere.
As for Selznick, he had one primary dream—to cast Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. This turned out to be an arduous endeavor, consuming two years of effort. These were times when ironclad contracts with powerful studios bound actors indefinitely, stripping them of any freedom in choosing roles. Gable was under contract with MGM, a studio notorious for not lending out its stars. Negotiations dragged on for months, with ever-increasing sums being offered. In the end, Selznick succeeded, but at a steep cost. To think that at the very beginning of this journey, he wasn’t even interested in the project!
The grueling battle with MGM was, of course, just one piece of the puzzle. Another was the work on the screenplay. The initial version, drafted by Sidney Howard, was so lengthy it would have required six hours of screen time. Ben Hecht was hastily brought in and given a mere five days to rework it. He managed to complete half, after which David O. Selznick himself took over as screenwriter. However, due to his struggles with meeting the deadline, the job was ultimately finished by the original author, Sidney Howard. Howard is credited as the screenwriter not only because the final version closely aligned with his vision but also as a tribute—he tragically died in an accident before the film’s release, at just 48 years old. Posthumously, he was awarded an Oscar for Gone with the Wind.
The most challenging task, however, turned out to be finding the right actress to play the lead role of Scarlett O’Hara. Selznick began his search among unknown talents, announcing a casting call that attracted 1,400 applicants. This move was primarily a marketing strategy, as it was clear from the outset that the role of Scarlett would not go to an unknown actress.
Two stars energetically campaigned for the role—Bette Davis and Katharine Hepburn, the latter convinced that the role had been written specifically for her. Selznick did not share this conviction, which he expressed in rather blunt terms. MGM’s leading actresses, Joan Crawford and Norma Shearer, were also considered, though Shearer ultimately withdrew from the competition. The list of hopefuls included Lana Turner, Jean Arthur, Tallulah Bankhead, Joan Bennett, and Miriam Hopkins, who, according to rumors, was Margaret Mitchell’s favorite. Officially, however, the author did not endorse any candidate.
By late December 1938, only two contenders remained: Vivien Leigh and Paulette Goddard. Initially considered “too British” for the role of Scarlett, Vivien Leigh quickly emerged as the dark horse, partly due to her French-Irish heritage, which mirrored that of the literary character. Paulette Goddard, on the other hand, was ultimately disqualified due to her scandalous romance and marriage to Charlie Chaplin.
Alongside Leigh and Gable, the film features Olivia de Havilland as Melanie Hamilton, Leslie Howard as her husband and Scarlett’s object of desire, Ashley Wilkes, and Hattie McDaniel as Mammy. McDaniel won an Academy Award for her role, becoming the first African American in history to receive this honor. Sadly, due to the color of her skin, she was not allowed to attend the film’s official premiere, which took place in Atlanta on December 15, 1939. However, it was she who convinced an outraged Clark Gable not to boycott the event on her behalf.
Three hundred thousand Atlanta residents flooded the streets, giving an ovation to the parade of limousines carrying stars to the theater. The three days leading up to the premiere were also festive, filled with autograph signings and Confederate flag-waving. Critics’ opinions following the premiere were mostly very positive, though there were some dissenting voices pointing out superficiality (especially in the second half of the film), an overemphasis on trivial details, and an imbalance between the power of the story itself and the personal dramas of the characters.
The Black community also voiced strong criticism, angered by the portrayal of African American characters in the film. Hattie McDaniel faced significant backlash, being insultingly labeled an “Uncle Tom.” This term, used to describe a submissive, white-serving slave figure, implied she was a traitor to her race. Undeterred, McDaniel calmly responded that she would rather earn $700 a week playing a maid than $7 a week being one. The Black community was not unified in its opposition; some expressed hope that the widespread acclaim for McDaniel’s role signified a first step toward change in how Hollywood depicted African Americans and a gateway to greater representation on the silver screen.
In the 1970s, Gone with the Wind came under heavy criticism from film critics. A new generation of journalists was far more stringent than their predecessors from the 1940s. The film was judged as “not aging well,” deemed forgettable, poorly written, poorly directed, with the depth of a colorful postcard, and essentially more the product of a craftsman’s heavy hand than an artist’s imagination. Even then, however, the film critics’ community couldn’t deny Gone with the Wind its entertainment value—despite the passage of time, it continued to break popularity and viewership records. This was the first and last time the press treated Selznick’s and Fleming’s film so harshly. Ultimately, in a BBC poll conducted in 2015, 62 film critics ranked Gone with the Wind 97th among the greatest American films of all time. In the American Film Institute’s rankings of the 100 greatest films, it secured fourth place in 1998 and sixth place in 2007. Citizen Kane claimed the top spot in both editions of the poll.
Without a doubt, it is an iconic film and an important entry in the history of world cinema, though it should never be viewed as a historical document. Like the book, the film version of Gone with the Wind is an expression of a romanticized myth—a myth of a strong, noble South, the guardian of traditional values, the protector of contented slaves, under attack by a mindless, cruel, amoral North, rebelling in defense of its way of life and identity. This beautiful, languid South, with its cotton fields, grand plantations, coquettish ladies swaying crinolines and tightly corseted waists, gentlemen with impeccable manners, sharp wits, and steady aim, presents a picturesque, contented image with no room for the realities of exploitation, degradation, and slave labor. Even the Ku Klux Klan is given a more humanized portrayal—as a group of men defending the virtue of an assaulted lady. The name of the Klan is not even mentioned in the film, cloaked under the guise of “political meetings.”
The brutal, fratricidal war obliterates everything that was dear, certain, and valuable, bringing the Old South crashing down and giving way to a new reality governed, of course, by rogues and traitors of all kinds. Representatives of noble, old families become relics of the past, proudly displaying their poverty as a testament to their steadfast character and loyalty to principles. It’s no wonder, then, that the enterprising Scarlett and the disillusioned Rhett are treated as traitors and outcasts by the entire community.
This nostalgic portrayal of times gone by, though debatable in terms of historical accuracy, is not entirely naive. Margaret Mitchell deals rather harshly with Ashley, who embodies Southern values. She depicts him as a weak, indecisive man lost in a world of illusions, incapable of making any mature decisions. He is like a leaf in the wind, passive and in need of care. To make matters worse, he is dishonest with his adoring wife, unable to be either mentally faithful or physically unfaithful to her, confusing love with desire in a boyish way.
The film’s portrayal of Ashley is somewhat gentler, though he remains a spineless figure swept along by the current of events. Sweet, kind, endlessly patient Melanie, unable to believe a single bad word about the people she loves, is almost unreal—a figure akin to a modern-day saint.
Thus, the future belongs to Scarlett. Though she grew up in the idealistic South, she was never truly a part of it. Her nature is practical, primal, and above all, strong. Scarlett does not give up. Once a pampered young girl who had never even made herself a cup of tea, she learns to pull herself together and face whatever life throws at her. She cares for her senile father and her sisters, keeps the failing plantation she loves so deeply afloat, and confronts war, hunger, taxes, harvests, and human frailty. The only enigma is her persistent passion for Ashley—for someone who values strength and decisiveness, his weakness as a man should be repellent. Perhaps, however, she clings to the disappointment of a spoiled child denied the one toy she truly wanted. Scarlett holds onto the illusion of her love for Ashley because he is the one person she couldn’t conquer.
By nature, lacking an inclination for introspection, Scarlett never takes the time to confront the reality of her feelings and uproot them. It’s a pity, as it is precisely this flaw that ultimately causes her to lose Rhett. She realizes too late that they are meant for each other, their personalities two halves of the same apple. Rhett, of course, is not without fault—his masculine pride plays a significant role. He fails to openly express his true feelings for Scarlett, treating their marriage as a business transaction for mutual benefit. Rhett knows that if Scarlett understood the depth of his emotions, he would surrender complete control to her. This is something he refuses to allow.
Ultimately, these two people, destined and deeply in love, live side by side, drifting further apart until they cross a Rubicon from which there is no return. When Scarlett runs through the mist from Melanie and Ashley’s home to confess her newly realized love to Rhett, it is already too late. He no longer cares what happens to her—at least, that’s what he claims. For Scarlett, this is a devastating blow, but one she will recover from—just as she has always risen after every setback. Scarlett will rise again and fight because she is born to win, to face adversity, and to overcome obstacles. Ultimately, tomorrow is another day.
At the Twelve Oaks barbecue at the Wilkes estate, Rhett Butler instantly becomes a persona non grata after delivering perhaps the only sensible and rational remark in the entire film. Calmly, he points out to the excited Southerners, eager for war, that their resources for defending against the industrialized North—its factories and steelworks—amount to little more than cotton, slaves, and pride. This pointed prophecy (which, incidentally, struck a chord with Scarlett’s practical side) would come true to the letter. Thus, a new symbol was needed, and Scarlett O’Hara becomes precisely that—a representation of an indomitable spirit and, by extension, the new America, capable of transforming defeat into victory.
This aspect, alongside the naive portrayal of happy slaves, is what most rankled historians. As David Blight writes in Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory:
From the narratives of the defenders of the Lost Cause of the Confederacy emerges a vision of a reunited America—pure, innocent, and convinced that all past conflicts were the unfortunate result of external pressures. The losing side is left assured that their beliefs were both proper and true.
For my part, I view Gone with the Wind with a certain sadness and a bit of abstract nostalgia for a bygone era of cinema—films of a kind that no longer exist. It is 2024, and the last to members of the original cast died respectively in 2020 and 2022: the magnificent Olivia de Havilland, and Mickey Kuhn, who played Melanie’s son, Beau. Leslie Howard died during the war. Clark Gable passed away in 1960, and Vivien Leigh in 1967. Hattie McDaniel succumbed to breast cancer in 1952. As for David Selznick, he lived to see his 63rd birthday, dying of a heart attack in 1965—a feat in itself, considering his long-term addiction to amphetamines.
And yet, generation after generation continues to root for Scarlett, who, donning a gown made from her mother’s curtains, charges into the world with unshakable courage.
Karolina Chymkowska