Douglas Sirk was a master of making the American Dream look like a high-end prison. Honestly, if you sit down to watch the There’s Always Tomorrow movie from 1956, you might expect a light, mid-century melodrama. You’d be wrong. It is one of the most devastating films of the 1950s because it doesn’t deal in grand tragedies like murder or war. Instead, it deals in the slow, agonizing realization that your life has become a series of polite obligations. It's about a man who is loved by his family but treated like a piece of furniture that pays the bills.
Fred MacMurray plays Clifford Groves. He’s a toy manufacturer. Irony? Yeah, Sirk lays it on thick. Cliff spends his days designing things for children to play with, yet his own children treat him like an annoyance or a walking ATM. He’s a success by every metric of the Eisenhower era, but he’s profoundly lonely. Then, Norma (Barbara Stanwyck) walks back into his life. She’s a former employee, now a successful independent woman, and suddenly Cliff remembers that he used to be a person, not just "Dad."
The Brutality of the Suburban Trap in There's Always Tomorrow
Most people think of the 1950s as this golden age of the nuclear family. Sirk saw the cracks. In the There’s Always Tomorrow movie, the house isn't a sanctuary. It’s a cage with nice curtains. One of the most striking things about this film is how it uses space. Cliff is constantly blocked by stair railings, door frames, or his own kids. When he tries to take his wife out for a romantic evening, the kids guilt-trip her into staying home for a school play or a minor crisis. They don't hate him. That’s the kicker. They just don't see him as a human being with desires.
Sirk’s direction is surgical. He doesn't need big explosions. He just needs a shot of Fred MacMurray standing alone in a hallway while his family laughs in another room. It’s quiet. It’s brutal.
Stanwyck is incredible here. She isn't a "femme fatale" trying to ruin a marriage. She genuinely loves Cliff, and she sees how much he’s hurting. The conflict isn't between "good" and "evil." It's between a chance at genuine happiness and the crushing weight of social responsibility. In 1956, responsibility won. Every time.
Why Fred MacMurray Was the Perfect Choice
We often remember MacMurray as the lovable dad from My Three Sons or the guy in The Absent-Minded Professor. But before he became the face of Disney-fied fatherhood, he was a king of film noir. Remember Double Indemnity? He and Stanwyck had this electric, dangerous chemistry.
Bringing them back together for this film was a stroke of genius. The audience in 1956 knew their history. They saw the ghosts of Walter Neff and Phyllis Dietrichson underneath the suburban clothes. It adds a layer of "what if" to the entire story. You’re rooting for them to run away together, even though you know it will destroy everything Cliff has built.
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MacMurray plays "defeated" better than almost anyone. He has this way of sagging into a chair that makes you feel the weight of twenty years of unappreciated hard work. He's not a hero. He's a guy who realized too late that he took the wrong path.
The Toy Robot as a Soul-Crushing Metaphor
There’s this scene with a robot toy Cliff invented. It’s a little wind-up thing that just walks forward until it hits a wall, then turns and walks the other way. It’s not subtle. The robot is Cliff. He’s been wound up by society, and he’s just going through the motions.
When he talks about the robot, he’s talking about his own life. He tells Norma that he feels like he’s just a machine that performs a function. It’s one of those moments where the There’s Always Tomorrow movie feels shockingly modern. We talk about "burnout" and "work-life balance" today like they’re new concepts. Sirk was documenting the prototype of that burnout nearly seven decades ago.
The kids in this movie are particularly grating. They are the personification of mid-century entitlement. When they start spying on their father because they suspect he’s having an affair, they don’t do it out of love for their mother. They do it to protect the status quo. They want their "robot" to keep functioning so their lives don't change. It’s cold-blooded.
The Cinematography of Isolation
Russell Metty, the cinematographer, deserves a lot of credit. While Sirk is famous for the technicolor explosions of All That Heaven Allows, this film is in black and white. It works better that way. The shadows are long. The lighting is harsh. It feels like a noir, even though it's a domestic drama.
Look at the scenes in the desert resort. Even in the wide-open spaces, Cliff and Norma look cramped. They are trapped by the camera's frame. There is no escape. Even when they are alone, the social expectations of the 1950s are right there with them, like a third person in the room.
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Comparing the 1956 Version to the 1934 Original
A lot of people don't realize that the There’s Always Tomorrow movie from 1956 is actually a remake. The original came out in 1934 and starred Frank Morgan (the Wizard from The Wizard of Oz).
The 1934 version is good, but it lacks the bite of the Sirk remake. The Pre-Code era allowed for more frankness about sex, but Sirk’s version is more honest about the psychological toll of marriage. The 1956 film feels more cynical. By the mid-50s, the "American Way of Life" had become a rigid doctrine, and Sirk was fascinated by the people who couldn't fit into it.
In the original, the ending feels a bit more like a standard melodrama. In Sirk's hands, the ending is a tragedy masked as a "happy" resolution. Cliff returns to his family. Everything goes back to normal. But as the viewer, you know that "normal" is a death sentence for his spirit. It’s one of the most depressing endings in cinema history precisely because everyone stays together.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Ending
There’s a common misconception that this is a movie about an affair. It’s not. It’s a movie about the possibility of an affair. Cliff and Norma don't actually do much. They talk. They walk. They remember.
The tragedy isn't that Cliff loses his family; it's that he doesn't. He is forced back into the box. When his children "forgive" him at the end, it’s nauseating. They are forgiving him for wanting a life of his own. They are granting him permission to continue being their servant.
If you watch the final shot carefully—Cliff looking out the window while his family carries on behind him—it’s clear he’s already checked out. He’s physically there, but he’s gone.
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Actionable Insights for Film Lovers
If you're planning to dive into the world of 1950s melodramas or specifically want to appreciate the There’s Always Tomorrow movie, here’s how to get the most out of the experience:
- Watch for the "Mirror" Scenes: Sirk used mirrors to show the fractured identities of his characters. Count how many times Cliff looks at himself and doesn't seem to recognize the man staring back.
- Contextualize the "Boring" Dad: Don't view Cliff through a 2026 lens. In 1956, a man like Cliff was the ideal. Seeing him as a victim was a radical move by the filmmakers.
- Double Feature it with Double Indemnity: Watch Stanwyck and MacMurray in 1944, then watch them in this. It’s like watching a dark timeline of what happens when the "bad" couple tries to go legit and gets bored to death.
- Pay Attention to the Sound: The way the children’s voices often drown out the adults is intentional. It’s a sonic representation of Cliff’s loss of agency in his own home.
Final Thoughts on a Forgotten Masterpiece
This isn't a "feel-good" movie. It’s a "feel-uncomfortable-about-your-life" movie. It challenges the idea that sacrifice is always noble. Sometimes, sacrifice is just a waste of a perfectly good life.
Sirk didn't want to give us a happy ending because there wasn't one to be had. In the rigid social structure of the time, Cliff’s only options were to destroy his family or destroy himself. He chose himself.
To truly appreciate the There’s Always Tomorrow movie, you have to look past the 1950s fashion and the polite dialogue. Listen to what isn't being said. Look at the way the characters avoid touching each other. It’s a film about the silence that grows between people who are supposed to love each other, and that is a theme that will never be outdated.
If you want to see more of Douglas Sirk's work, track down Written on the Wind or Imitation of Life. They are more colorful, sure, but they don't have the raw, quiet ache of this one. It remains a high-water mark for adult drama in an era that was obsessed with staying youthful and carefree.
How to Watch It Today
The film is often available on Criterion Channel or through specialized classic cinema outlets like Kino Lorber. It’s worth the hunt. If you’ve ever felt like your life isn't quite your own, or if you’ve ever wondered "what if" about a person from your past, this movie will hit you like a ton of bricks. Just don't expect to feel like smiling when the credits roll.
To explore this further, check out the following steps:
- Compare the 1956 script to the original Ursula Parrott novel to see how Sirk sharpened the themes of domestic entrapment.
- Research "The Sirkian Melodrama" to understand how this film fits into his larger critique of American capitalism.
- Look for the black-and-white cinematography analysis by film historians who highlight how Russell Metty used lighting to mimic the "film noir" style within a suburban setting.
The movie serves as a stark reminder that while we often talk about the "good old days," for many, those days were defined by a quiet desperation that was never allowed to speak its name.