Glenn Heath Jr.
Lyrical Westerns like Monte Walsh and kindred blood-brothers Junior Bonner and Pat Garret and Billy the Kid were all released in the 1970’s, a decade of American Cinema flushed with poetic genre revisionism and complex characterizations. These films deconstruct iconography by putting a special emphasis on the conflict between friendship and survival, framing these relationships within the dynamic context of a changing frontier. Ambiguous characters replace once standard archetypes of heroism and villainy, while violence stems from social circumstance, not genre expectation. By and large these beautiful films connect the shifting landscape with character psychology, which makes Monte Walsh and its almost elemental focus on character interaction a fascinating deviation from the brooding, fateful Peckinpah films.
Monte Walsh begins in Anthony Mann country, as Monte (Lee Marvin) and Chet (Jack Palance) ride down a rigid mountainside only to encounter a wolf. Director William A. Fraker sets up these characters immediately as Monte aims his rifle, then pauses to reflect on an old story he heard about a man who wrestled wolves. Chet, tired of Monte’s musings, grabs the rifle and quickly shoots the wolf. In a moment, we learn about one man’s devotion to the memory of tradition, and another’s pragmatic determination toward moving forward. The film follows Monte and Chet as they look for work in a desolate town, ride as cowboys for a fledgling outfit recently purchased by a East-coast conglomerate, and inevitably face the pressure of change from all directions.
But plot plays second fiddle to mood and tone in Monte Walsh, a film completely keen on showing the roughly poetic interactions between cowboys, the intricacies of their grueling work, and the melancholy feeling of losing one’s self to an evolving world. Fraker greatly respects Monte and his colleagues, painting their warm interactions against closed backdrops and dirty interiors, forcing the viewer to see them as people instead of icons amidst horizons. Even when one character turns to a life of crime because of impossible circumstances, the film sees his downfall as an offshoot of the economic drain from corporate domination, the open range dwindling into a fenced in mind-numbing stasis.
The true genius of Monte Walsh stems from how it handles tragedy, how Monte is absent from almost every scene of loss while the viewer gets to fully witness each. In turn, standard Western conventions begin to impose themselves on Monte’s life like phantoms of a lost world, pushing revenge, honor, and sacrifice to the forefront as Monte deals with his own failure to save the people he loves. But for this hero, all roads lead back to that first moment in the film – where simplicity and understanding of the past become both inspiring and sorrowful, a reminder of the nostalgic times and of how quickly they fade away. Considering the mournful endings of other lyrical Westerns, Monte Walsh stands out as a sly and beautifully subtle rumination on all themes Western, and for that matter all themes American.
Modern Hollywood films often package inspiration with false-sentiment, a costly price-tag that has made a generation of viewers cynical and uncaring about the way uplifting stories are told. Character development gets pushed to the side in favor of simplistic narrative conventions, making it easy to roll your eyes at the overly emotional and hollow end-product.
This makes Peter Yates’ superbly honest Breaking Away an even more impressive feat considering the genre minefield it traverses. On the surface Breaking Away is just another sports film, that tried and true story of a small town kid transcending the odds and winning a victory for the little guy. But the film has plenty to say about how this seemingly familiar story fits into a greater human conflict, between social classes in small town America, international sporting stars and homegrown talent, and familial relationships pushed to the brink by tradition and change. Through the eyes of Dave (Dennis Christopher), a cyclist growing up amidst the constant tension of rich college kids and local “cutters” in Bloomington, Indiana, Yates shows the many disappointments and revelations of a passionate, complex young man. His growth becomes more important than the ultimate momentary victory, and Breaking Away collects these countless moments of resonance, making every character a dynamic, crucial piece Dave’s life.
It’s always surprising when a film like Breaking Away treats it’s characters like treasures, handling them with care, polishing their rough surfaces until something unique flashes for a moment. Each scene builds up a foundation of context, allowing the relationships to evolve organically instead of being dependent on extreme highs and lows. In Yates, the man also responsible for Bullitt and the nasty, fragmented slice of 70’s grit entitled The Friends of Eddie Coyle, I’ve found a resilient and diverse directorial force capable of handling many competing genres and tones with ease.
Filed under: Films: 1970's | Tags: Arthur Penn, Jack Nicholson, Marlon Brando
What begins as a dirty and schizophrenic revisionist Western akin to Benton’s Bad Company, gradually turns into a fractured and disturbing requiem for the frontier and certainly one of the strangest genre films ever made. It’s impossible to discuss the oddness of Arthur Penn’s The Missouri Breaks without first mentioning Marlon Brando’s out-of-this-world performance as bounty hunter Robert E. Lee Clayton, a stunning jumble of cunning, flamboyance, cruelty, and professionalism. When Clayton shows up half-way through the film as a hired gun, Penn’s narrative almost spins off its axis under the pressure of such a force. Traditional Western archetypes become confused, impotent, and disposable as Clayton overwhelms scene after scene with a personality too big for his environment.
Jack Nicholson’s Tom Logan, a horse thief and the object of Clayton’s gaze, is the only character able to see past his opponent’s ridiculous facade and recognize the incredible danger of such a man. But what exactly makes Brando’s character so threatening to both his prey and the cattle baron who’s hired him? Is it his inferred homosexuality or his disavowal of honorable rules? Could it be both intertwined together? These are all questions that make The Missouri Breaks a near impenetrable but fascinating work. The film seems on the brink of saying something about the complexity and falseness of Western iconography and social codes, but like Clayton’s phantasmic ability to hop around the open terrain, the film morphs so often it becomes overly jarring, even experimental in certain usages of sound and image. By the time Logan gets revenge, his Western world is already turned upside down – friendless, womanless. and homeless – and Clayton’s imprint has been left forever.
John Huston’s Wise Blood depicts an American South caught between eras, where memories of slavery, religious evangelicalism, and destitution parallel growing modernization and urbanization. Racism and free-thought, progress and trauma, religion and capitalism are consistently at odds, creating an environment ripe for con artists posing as prophets. It seems everyone is looking for a cure, or at least an answer, especially Hazel Motes (Brad Dourif), a dynamic young man fresh out of the army hoping to transcend his grandfather’s extremist teachings and begin the Church Without Christ. Hazel enters the city naive and determined and immediately stands out to those eccentrics already entrenched in the vice of urban sprawl.
Together, Huston and Dourif make Hazel a dynamic force of uncertainty posing as strength, a twitching time bomb aching to exercise his past demons by starting a new vision of faith. It’s impossible to separate Hazel from his surroundings, since both character and space are equally tormented by the clash of various institutions, ideologies, and fallacies. This approach makes Wise Blood a fascinating and conflicted film, defined by tangents of indignation and hell-fire meant to highlight mood and atmosphere over traditional narrative techniques. Dourif’s great performance enters an exhausting psychological space forcing us to witness a degeneration of epic proportions. His noble intentions reveal damning cracks as selfishness and panic push friends away and embolden his enemies, isolating an already fragile incarnation. Finally, during a thick rainstorm that seemingly washes away the filth and faux-preachers, Huston paints a fitting and horrifying picture of limbo, a last compliment to Hazel’s philosophical demise.
I hadn’t seen this in years, yet it feels like an old friend I didn’t quite fully appreciate. Manhattan is possibly Woody Allen’s must subtle film, walking the line between character study and romantic comedy, blurring the rules of Cinema by devoting an entire seemingly simple story to one specific dynamic space. Of course this approach highlights many different moments and places depending on the viewer and their mood, whether it be the dynamic Gershwin-themed opening crescendo, the brilliant use of light and dark in the planetarium, or the cramped, frenzied decor of Isaac’s small apartment. This makes Manhattan one of those rare films that changes effortlessly upon repeat viewings. Also, the great ending struck me as Allen’s most superb singular moment where his writing, directing, and acting all converge to illuminate one character’s potential downfall and last chance at happiness, where a flood of emotions cross the screen for just a second, leaving a great wealth of possibility to consider while the credits roll.
Avanti! captures that certain magical essence of experiencing a foreign land for the first time, using the hypnotic hues of the Mediterranean seaside to illuminate the inherent healing powers of fresh perspective. The rush of American consumerism and arrogance gets put on hold, revealing the futility of such notions while allowing for a long Italian lunch filled with whimsical musings about fate and destiny. Wilder’s film is beautiful in every way, evoking a cinematic sensation only found in the best Lubitsch romances, where a glance, a kiss, and a smile say more about love than any words could. It’s also a film that sneaks up on you, morphing from a trifle comedy into a layered, political rumination on the dynamics of free-thinking perspective. The lovely narrative pace continuously churns with vibrant mise-en-scene and revelations of color and tone. Time passes without much concern for deadline or result, instead reveling in the moment of human connection, and Wilder’s characters learn to appreciate a much more rewarding slice of mutual indulgence. Even after the final silent goodbye, there’s a glaring hope the character’s lasting impressions will continue on long after the credits end, transcending the cynical and destructive outside world.
