Poor Paul; always the oddball. His own father finds him bizarre, and when we first meet him in Willa Cather’s short story—standing in front of his teachers to discuss his recent suspension—it’s clear they feel the same way. In fact, they even hold some animus towards the youth. It’s not something they feel proud of, but really: What’s the deal with this tall, oddly-behaving, obnoxiously-grinning fellow who constantly emanates a contemptuous air?
No one really seems to know—not exactly, anyway. They can point to his peculiar behavior, his mysterious smile, his ability to make nearly everyone he encounters feel off balance. But beyond that, Paul’s character eludes precise description. One befuddled teacher can really do no better than to say of Paul, “There is something wrong about the fellow.”
But as the maxim goes, there are always at least two sides to every story. So: Is Paul the one who’s ultimately off-base, or do his father, teachers, and peers wrongly perceive him? Or is it maybe a bit of both?
The difficulty of figuring out answers to these questions is what makes “Paul’s Case,” first published in 1905, such a pleasure to read (it originally bore the subtitle “A Study in Temperament”). Both titles suggest the presence of deviation—of a young man who manifests qualities that in some way are non-conforming or peculiar. Likewise, “case” conjures up a variety of contexts, everything from law to medicine to science.
As one might expect, there are myriad ways to go about interpreting Paul’s “case.” And indeed, that’s part of what makes the story such a satisfying reading experience. Or, in this case, viewing experience.
Part of PBS’ film series The American Short Story (produced in the 1970s), “Paul’s Case” is one of seventeen screen adaptations of classic stories like William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” and Mark Twain’s “The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg.” Most of the films are around 45 minutes in length, and each follows closely its textual counterpart, giving audiences both an honest and enjoyable cinematic experience of great American literature.
“Paul’s Case” in particular is such an easy story to get into. Its themes are timeless: youth, escape, alienation, the tension between dreams and reality, conformity and nonconformity. Depending on how one interprets the story, one might view Paul as a classic example of a passionate—but utterly naive—teenager who is readily dismissive of everything and everyone that doesn’t fit into his ideal conception of how the world should be.
The character of Paul is superbly played by Eric Roberts, who nails the quirky mannerisms of the story’s enigmatic young man. It’s fun to watch.
In the film’s opening scene, we see Paul sitting on a bench as he waits to be called into a classroom to discuss his suspension in front of his teachers and principal. Sharply dressed and sporting a red carnation, Paul gently taps his hat against his thighs while slightly moving his lips—as if thinking aloud or rehearsing a line before going on stage. A confident (albeit slightly peculiar) smile then comes across his face. A few seconds later, he’s called into the room.
The meeting ultimately settles nothing. The two parties remain at odds and as wary as ever of the other. Paul exits the building and jauntily walks to his after-school job as an usher at Carnegie Hall.
It’s there, we come to see, that Paul is most in his element. Nothing else in his home city of Pittsburgh brings to him the kind of joy and escape as does being inside the music hall. His heart and mind lavishly partake of all its dazzling delights. The music, the instruments, the performers, the whole spectacle exerts a rapturous glee on Paul that is unrivaled by scarcely anything in the world.
It’s an identifiable feeling. Whether one derives it from art or music or nature or love, we’ve all been transported to that lofty state of the sublime—that place where the ordinariness of life is supplanted by something magical, freeing, and transcendent.
The trouble for Paul—as it can be for many of us—is that these are relatively rare and fleeting moments. They don’t last. In the text of the short story, Paul believes that the “delicious excitement” of these experiences is “the only thing that could be called living at all.” That kind of mentality, of course, is a recipe for a dysfunctional life.
And so, not surprisingly, Paul detests his existence on Cordelia Street. He can barely stomach the interior of his room, the social conventions of neighborhood life on Sunday afternoons, and the expectations his father has for him. Even the smells of common food have become a source of displeasure. Indeed, all of it is utterly anathema to Paul.
What, then, is he going to do? Is escaping from his tedious and suffocating life in Pittsburgh possible? Is happiness out there…somewhere?
As we watch Paul in the film go from location to location—eventually arriving in New York—there’s a kind of joy mixed with sorrow in seeing Paul brought to life while all the while knowing that the deep-rooted angst of his soul remains unresolved (whatever in fact it involves).
From the bright and cheery interior of the hotel, Paul often looks out the windows, observing the blankets of smooth snow and the chilly landscape. Paul’s dreams have come alive, but can they last the season of winter?
“Paul’s Case,” whether read or watched, is well worth part of a weekend afternoon. It’s a beautiful and powerful story, conducive to a manifold of interesting interpretations.
Spectatio 
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