World War II from the middle-class Brits’ perspective. We join a hard-working family, share their modest concerns just before the onset of hostilities, then stand by as their priorities drastically shift. In one moment, lavish expenses, exclusive flower shows and snooty neighbors comprise the extent of their worries. In the next, ears are tuned for air raid sirens, an eldest son races to join the RAF and a desperate Nazi paratrooper appears in the garden.

_Mrs. Miniver_ was indeed propaganda, boosting the Allied cause while the wounds of the Nazis’ blitz on London were still fresh, but it’s far more subtle than the loud, whitewashed, nationalistic newsreels that usually represent that term. Here, we identify with the squabbles of pre-war life, feel the conflicted emotions of standing up for one’s beliefs at great personal risk, linger on the dark terror of a quaking single-family bomb shelter at bedtime. Those latter moments seem to stretch forever; a powerful blend of whimpering children and brave-faced parents that squeezes every last drop of empathy from a very ripe scenario. The Minivers are little more than pawns in this global game, but because the first act is so effectively disarming, it’s easy to feel trapped, unprepared, in that bunker right beside them. We fear the worst for their son, who routinely alerts family to his safety by cutting engines during household fly-overs, but this war is no distant specter. By the famously rousing final soliloquy, recited amidst the ruins of a bombed-out chapel, every single member of the community has paid tolls in one form or another.

Critically beloved, _Mrs. Miniver_ took home six Academy Awards (including best picture and best director) and was almost immediately adapted to radio for broader dissemination. Even Joseph Goebbels, the infamous Nazi propaganda minister, held it up as a prime example of the kind of cinema he wanted to create with the German media machine.