Even the most inspired visionary can't change an organization if he doesn't first understand it.
It would be simple to approach the battle between McMurphy and Ratched for the soul of the ward as a case study in divergent leadership styles, with McMurphy triumphing in spirit, if not in fact. He is reduced to a zombie by a lobotomy, but his protégé -- the Chief (Will Sampson) -- makes a run for it. Ratched is all rigidity and rules: she derives power from her ability to humiliate and cow a vulnerable constituency. McMurphy, on the other hand, reminds the lost souls of their humanity and restores their belief in the possibility of joy. Where there is life -- and McMurphy is life at its roughest, rawest, and most potent -- there is hope.
But McMurphy makes the same mistake that many new leaders in established organizations commit: he tries to enact change without understanding why things are the way they are. Upending power structures, flouting bad rules, turning on the charisma, he seems like a rebel destined to win his cause. He learns too late that the organization he hopes to turn around is deeply and complexly dysfunctional and that the powers that oppose him are firmly entrenched. Yes, the world can be changed by a single person. But not by a naï ve one.
Twelve Angry Men (1957)
It's a sweltering afternoon, and you're closeted in an airless room with 11 other people, many of whom you'd ordinarily cross the street to avoid. The group's mission is to make a decision based on seemingly clear-cut evidence. The other members vote immediately for the obvious course of action, one that, for all you know, may be correct. But you have this nagging doubt. What do you do?
If you're Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men, you quietly but resolutely force the issue back on the table. The issue, in this case, is the guilt or innocence of a teenage boy accused of killing his father. The jurors represent backgrounds, personalities, and agendas calculated to clash. Alone among them, Fonda (Juror #8) understands the gravity of the matter and deplores the haste to convict. But instead of trying to seize the bridle and yank the runaway horse in the right direction, #8 relies on open-ended questioning, sophisticated reasoning, and yes, even patient listening to draw the others into his corner. Occasionally forced into impassioned confrontations, #8 rarely says anything more adamant than "I don't know. It's possible." Yet by the film's end he has transformed a lackluster, rubber-stamp meeting into an encounter bristling with energy and passion, during which each juror has publicly confronted his own demons.
Juror #8's performance is a model for corporate leaders trying to win over diverse, hostile constituencies without resorting to bullying or edict. After watching Twelve Angry Men, executives may forgo that M.B.A. and pursue a psychology degree instead.
Twelve O'Clock High (1949)
Our readers can't get enough of Twelve O'Clock High (it turned up on more than two dozen lists), and not just because Gregory Peck looks swell in a leather bomber jacket. Many testify to repeated viewings of this World War II yarn in which General Frank Savage (Peck) takes over a bombing unit that has been reduced to chaos by a beloved commanding officer whose empathy has seriously compromised his ability to lead.
New leaders must first earn employees' respect, even if that means being unpopular. If they do it right, love will follow.
Savage realizes that in order to build up his men, he must first break down their defiant, defeatist attitudes. He accomplishes that with a series of summary commands such as demoting an enlisted man for being out of uniform and reshuffling roommate assignments to prevent personal relationships from subverting smart combat decisions. The troops rebel, but Savage doesn't ease up. And slowly, as the ragtag 918th Bomber Group sees itself metamorphose into a crack squad of precision bombers, its members come to appreciate the new CO's tactics and to love and respect the man himself.
Twelve O'Clock High will not appeal to hierarchy flatteners and empowerment enthusiasts trying to build cultures as warm and welcoming as the family den. Savage succeeds because he doesn't give a damn about his own popularity -- only about the effectiveness of the squadron. And no, good leaders don't always have to be sons of bitches. But Savage would argue that when the straits are dire and the stakes enormous, it's the only way.
Leigh Buchanan is a senior editor at Inc. Mike Hofman is a staff writer at Inc.
