You Can't Take It With You

Exploring the Stoic side of a classic film with contemporary relevance

I’m starting an occasional series on Stoic themes in old movies. I love old films because they are unabashed in promoting the virtues that have fallen out of fashion today. Maybe it’s just me, but I find today’s cinematic landscape rather bleak and dark. It’s all about flawed heroes, hopeless injustices, and apocalypse. Sometimes I just want to watch a well-made film with a good script and great acting that celebrates the decent side of human nature. A film that explores moral choices in a thoughtful and interesting way. A film like You Can’t Take it With You, which has been delighting audiences since 1938.

If you’re looking for a movie with heart and humor that is both edifying and entertaining, look no further. It’s all here. The phrase “an all-star cast” is overused, but I think everyone would agree it applies in this case: Lionel Barrymore, Jimmy Stewart, Jean Arthur—oh, and did I mention it was directed by Frank Capra? That will give you an idea of the themes and general tone of the film, but you’ll have to watch (or re-watch) it yourself to remember how good it is. (It’s available for free on YouTube…just click on the video above.)

Plot

Grandpa Vanderhof heads an eccentric family of dreamers and hobbyists who spend their lives pursuing their passions rather than pursuing money and status. Grandpa plays the harmonica, his daughter Penny writes plays, her husband sets off fireworks in the basement, their daughter Essie dances ballet around the house, and they pick up an assortment of other tinkerers and hangers-on (my favorite being Mischa Auer as Kolenkhov) who share their outlook on life.

However, the Vanderhofs just happen to live the middle of New York City in the middle of a block coveted by rich property developer Anthony P. Kirby. Grandpa Vanderhof refuses to sell to Kirby at any price, preferring to stay in a home with wonderful memories and wonderful neighbors. Kirby is stymied and tries every manner of devious and malicious trick to get his hands on the Vanderhof house.

In the tradition of cinematic happenstance, Grandpa’s granddaughter Alice happens to work as a secretary in Kirby’s office, and of course, as she happens to be beautiful and charming, Kirby’s son Tony happens to fall in love with her. Tony is somehow a very decent fellow, despite being raised by grasping and snobbish parents, and he doesn’t care that Alice’s family is much poorer than his or that his parents disapprove of her. But Alice doesn’t like being looked down on and she has serious misgivings when Tony proposes to her. Drama ensues.

Eventually, of course, the story ends happily when Anthony P. Kirby realizes that being a good friend and neighbor is more important than making money. He relinquishes his desire for the Vanderhof house and convinces his wife to support their son’s marriage to Alice. He learns to play the harmonica with Grandpa, returns the neighbors’ houses to them, and presumably everyone lives happily ever after. Harmony is restored in the Frank Capra world we all know and love.

Stoic themes

Despite its cheery tone and fairy-tale ending, You Can’t Take It With You is remarkably relevant in 2025 thanks to its examination of work-life balance, employee/employer relations, and criticism of elites in favor of “the common man,” to use a term from that era—as well as those timeless themes of greed and social snobbery. Grandpa Vanderhof began his life working for a big company (probably Kirby’s), but had a mid-life crisis of sorts when he realized he “wasn’t having any fun.” As his granddaughter puts it in a conversation with Tony:

Tony Kirby: I was just thinking about that family of yours. Living with them must be like living in a world of Walt Disney, my good fellow. Everybody does just as he pleases, doesn't he?

Alice Sycamore: Yes. Grandpa started it. He just suddenly left business one day. He started up in the elevator one day and he turned around and came right down. He never went back. He could have been a rich man; but, he said he wasn't having any fun.

Tony Kirby: Oh, that's wonderful.

Alice Sycamore: Then he started collecting stamps because that's what he likes best.

Source: Wikiquote

“Fun” is a persistent theme of the movie, but it would be misleading to equate 1930s fun with 2020s fun. This was during the Great Depression—these people are not sitting around scrolling on smartphones, or out partying, or traveling the world. They are simply finding joy in simple pursuits rather than slaving away for more money or social status. It’s not about leading a life of leisure; it’s about values. In a later conversation Tony and Alice discuss the broader implications of this lifestyle:

Tony Kirby: Your family, boy, they knocked me for a loop. I don't know, it just seems like in their own way, they found what everybody's looking for. People spend their whole lives building castles in the air and then nothing ever comes of it. I wonder why that is? Well, it takes courage. Everybody's afraid to live.

Alice Sycamore: You ought to hear Grandpa on that subject. He says most people nowadays are run by fear. Fear of what they eat, fear of what they drink, fear of their jobs, their future, fear of their health. They're scared to save money and scared to spend it. You know what his pet aversion is? The people who commercialize on fear, you know they scare you to death so they can sell you something you don't need. So, he kinda taught all of not to be afraid of anything, but do what we want to do. Well, its kinda fun, anyway.

Source: Wikiquote

I find these points incredibly relevant to the broader cultural conversation we’re still having today. Do we need to work endless hours in exchange for more money? Do we need to give up our family life in order chase a career? Do we need to do what everyone else is doing and value what everyone else values in order to get what everyone else is getting? Will it make us happy? Will it result in a good life for ourselves and the people around us?

As Alice Sycamore points out above, it takes courage to choose a different path from the one society expects us to take. It’s not about being different just for the sake of standing out, and it’s not even about thumbing your nose at The Man or The Machine (whatever that means). It’s about choosing a life of deep meaning rather than mindlessly conforming to other people’s values and expectations. It’s about looking past the emptiness of external reward and instead choosing to value what you already have.

I think the Vanderhof family’s alternative lifestyle could easily be described in today’s terms as slow living. Appreciating and enjoying the simple things you already have in your life rather than chasing after more. Spending time with family and friends—not doing anything fancy, just hanging out together. Pursuing meaningful experiences and fulfilling work. Feeling rich in time and purpose rather than money. It’s not that money is bad, of course. Most of us need some of it to survive in today’s world. But it’s not the primary goal. Even the Vanderhofs do various small jobs to make ends meet—selling candy, for example—but they are clear that their primary aim is to enjoy life.

I should note, though, that “enjoying life” doesn’t come at the expense of being a good person. They are not refusing to work or participate in society. On the contrary, they are such excellent neighbors that everyone considers Grandpa Vanderhof the de facto community leader. They simply choose to devote themselves to friends and family rather than money and status. So when Anthony Kirby asks Grandpa what he’s been doing for the past 35 years, he explains:

Just the things I wanted to do. I collected stamps. Went to the zoo when I got the notion. Took up the harmonica. And even found time to notice when Spring came around. This would be a fine country if we visited the zoo and played the harmonica. You used to play one yourself, Tony said so. Maybe you ought to take it up again. Maybe it would stop you trying to be so desperate about making more money that you can never use. You can’t take it with you, Mr. Kirby. So what good is it? As near as I can see, the only thing you can take with you is the love of your friends.

Source: Scripts.com

I think the uneasy balance between getting more and having enough is as old as civilization itself, and it will continue to be a challenge for every generation to come. Since you are reading this blog you probably agree with me that Stoicism offers a very compelling way of addressing this tension. Stoics see money as an indifferent. It’s something we can do good things or bad things with; as Epictetus puts it, indifferents are simply material for our moral choice. Money is not desirable in itself, but we can work in reasonable ways for money because it enables us to advance our goals in life.

The hard part is figuring out the details. How much work for how much money? How much money do we need for a fulfilling life? What are we willing to exchange for money in terms of our time, our wellbeing, or our relationships? There is probably no one-size-fits-all answer to these questions. Everyone has to think it through for themselves and decide how much of their lives they are willing to exchange for money. But we should always be clear that there is, in fact an exchange taking place—whenever we pursue something, we are giving up at least a small portion of our lives, our energy, our selves. That’s why it’s so important to carefully consider what is worth pursuing. Here’s how Seneca explains it:

Those things we compete for—the things to which we devote so much effort—offer us either no advantage, or greater disadvantage. Some are superfluities; others are not worth the trouble, but we don't realize it. We think things come for free, when in fact their price is very steep. Here is what makes our idiocy quite plain: we think the only things we pay for are those we spend our money on. The things we call free are those on which we spend our very selves. Things we wouldn't be willing to pay for it if meant giving up our house for them, or some pleasant or productive estate, we are quite ready to obtain at the cost of anxiety, of danger, of losing our freedom, our decency, our time. You see, we treat ourselves as if we were more worthless than anything else.

So let’s act in all situations and all our decisions as we do in the marketplace when a vendor has something we eagerly desire—let’s ask how much it’s going for. Often the price is very high even if you get it for nothing. I can show you many possessions that have cost us our liberty in the moment we acquired them. If those things did not belong to us, we would belong to ourselves.

Letters on Ethics, 42.6-8

You Can’t Take It With You draws a charming picture of what it might look like to “belong to yourself.” Although the Vanderhof family is obviously fictional and idealized, the ideal points to an attitude and lifestyle we can all incorporate to a greater or lesser degree in our own lives. We all have to make choices about where to spend our time, where to devote our energy, and I find such a sympathetic and timeless portrayal of slow living to be both instructive and inspiring. If you haven’t seen this film lately, do yourself a favor and go watch it. And then work on your stamp collection, or play the harmonica—or just find time to notice that spring has come around.

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