It's one of those clingy, possessive mother stories which were popular back then. Watching this, all I could think about was which Laurel and Hardy picture that line came from. It was actually THE FIXER UPPERS and I wish I'd watched that instead of this mushy vat of treacle.
Henrietta Crosman plays a kind of female Scrooge but she's just so horrible and humourless that no amount of seeing the light can redeem her to the viewer. That's the problem with this film - it's acted well, it's directed well but the lead character is just so unpleasant you can't empathise with her. You wish that she'd gone off to the Great War and got blown up instead.
What's difficult for us twenty first century cynics to grasp is that sentimentality, especially concerning the love between a mother and her son was different back then. It wasn't something to be sneered at, it was completely normal for it to be more explicit than it is now. You only have to think of Al Jolson singing to his mammy with tears in his eyes in THE JAZZ SINGER to appreciate that the mother-son thing was a lot stronger then.
In the context of history this has merit. As a motion picture, it's a good example highlighting John Ford's skill. The first half is typical pre-code stuff - you think you're in for a treat but its second half plummets downhill as it focuses on the growing remorse of Mrs Jessop. Her character just isn't likeable enough to command your sympathy and since it's obvious what's going to happen the ultimate viewing experience, especially after such a promising first half is disappointment.
