As I mentioned 
in my previous installment, I spent several hours this past weekend getting reacquainted with one of my favorite movies of all-time, The Searchers.
The Searchers was released in 1956, and is based on a short story by Alan Le May. Le May’s story, “The Avenging Texans,” was serialized in the Saturday Evening Post in 1954, and is itself rooted in a tragic event from Texas history, the kidnapping of Cynthia Ann Parker, once in 1836, and again 1860.
The majority of filming was done in Monument Valley, Arizona, a particular favorite setting of director John Ford. Ford’s incredible eye for cinematography makes each scene seem painted, not filmed. No other film seems as tied to the land as The Searchers, primarily because Ford uses low-angle shots to allow the rock formations to dominate the frame. Even if the movie had a forgettable plot and actors sleeping through their roles, the natural beauty John Ford managed to capture on film (thanks to the VistaVision widescreen format) would be worth the expenditure of 119 minutes.
* For those who haven’t seen the film, I reveal a bit of plot (but not the ending) below. *
No bones are made about the flawed nature of the characters in the film. Many objections of modern critics are focused on Ethan Edwards, played by John Wayne. I think Ethan is miscast by these critics as a racist; Ethan is a man excluded from any society. He hates Indians well before the opening of the movie (the observant viewer will understand why - more about this below), but he is in turn hated, or feared, by his own brother and other white settlers.
Critics also object to the negative light the band of Comanche are held in. While it is true that the Comanche scalp, massacre, rape, and kidnap the settlers, they also treat Debbie, Ethan’s captive niece, quite well. Look, the Comanche wife of Martin Pawley (Ethan’s “nephew,” and the true hero of the film), is also shown to be innocent and helpful.
Most interestingly for Hollywood in the Fifties, whites are shown committing despicable acts. Ethan himself scalps a Comanche in revenge. He shoots people, both white and Comanche, in the back. He even desecrates the dead in his vengeance:
[Brad Jorgenson takes a small boulder and attempts to crush the skull of a dead Comanche warrior]
Reverend Clayton: Jorgenson!
Ethan: Why don’t you finish the job?
[Ethan shoots out the eyes of the corpse]
Reverend Clayton: What good did that do ya?
Ethan: By what you preach… none. But, what that Comanch believes - ain’t got no eyes… can’t enter the spirit land… has to wander forever between the winds. You get it, Reverend.
The film isn’t so much about racism by one group against another as it is about the human desire for revenge.
An aspect of The Searchers that isn’t properly appreciated are the small things which give depth to the plot. Here are a few cool things I learned from reading the trivia page for the film’s IMDB entry:
In the first scene of the movie, Martha, Ethan’s sister-in-law, opens the door to the Edwards homestead. Approaching the home is a figure on horseback. It’s Ethan, returning three years after the surrender of the Confederate forces. The music for the scene is “Lorena,” a song about a sweetheart left behind popular with Confederate troops during the war.
“Lorena” is featured as a major element of the score throughout the film, but the placement here is quite intentional. In an interview given five years before he died, The Duke said John Ford hinted during filming that Ethan had an affair with Martha, his brother’s wife, and could have been the father of at least one of her children.
Ford certainly left plenty of evidence for the careful viewer to pick up on such a relationship. Between the tender looks Martha sends Ethan to the way she smoothes Ethan’s Johhny Reb coat when taking out of the chest, one gets the impression something has gone on in the past between the two. (click here for a larger view of the picture to the right)
This would explain some of Ethan’s unquenchable desire for vengeance, as does a prop featured in a scene just before the massacre. Debbie is sent to hide in the family graveyard behind the house. As she kneels down on her grandmother’s grave, the quick-eyed viewer can see the inscription on the headstone:
“Here lies Mary Jane Edwards, killed by Comanches May 12, 1852. A good wife and mother in her 41st year.”
Given the murder of his mother and mistress at the hands of the Comanche, Ethan’s actions are a little more understandable, if still not morally justifiable.
Another seeming hole in the plot which is covered by a prop is just what became of Ethan in the intervening years between the end of the Civil War and his return to Texas in 1868. The Reverend Captain Clayton (a preacher and Texas Ranger), suggests Ethan fits descriptions for a number of criminal suspects.
Ethan neither confirms or denies the charges, but a memento he gives to Debbie suggests he was otherwise occupied. Debbie asks for a locket like the one Ethan gave her older sister years before, but instead Ethan gives her a gorgeous military medal of his. Neither side, North or South, had a medal which matched the design of Ethan’s. The medal is actually French and would have been given to mercenaries who fought for Emperor Maximilian of Mexico from 1865 - 1867. Given his possession of the medal and his fluency in Spanish, it seems Ethan was south of the border for at least part of those three years.
The Searchers is a nearly perfect movie, and it has a perfect soundtrack. The score, written by Max Steiner (you’ve heard his music in Casablanca and Gone With the Wind), is composed largely of variations on “Lorena,” “Skip to my Lou,” “Shall We Gather at the River?” (which was written in 1864, just before the beginning of the movie), and “The Searchers,” a song written by Stan Jones. Steiner is a master of tying music and mood together, and The Searchers is a fine example of his work.
On a personal note, Ken Curtis, who went on to play Festus Haggen in Gunsmoke, plays a secondary character named Charlie McCorrie. Curtis, who started off in show business as a singer for Tommy Dorsey, was John Ford’s son-in-law. Until I watched the film last night, however, I hadn’t realized how much a young Ken Curtis resembles my Uncle Pat.
“Then he [Grant] looked toward Lee, and his eyes seemed to be resting on the handsome sword that hung at that officer’s side. He said afterward that this set him to thinking that it would be an unnecessary humiliation to require the officers to surrender their swords, and a great hardship to deprive them of their personal baggage and horses, and after a short pause he wrote the sentence: ‘This will not embrace the side-arms of the officers, nor their private horses or baggage.’”
- Horace Porter, Brevet Brigadier General, United States Army
Reverend Clayton (Ward Bond): Well, the prodigal brother. When did you get back? Ain’t seen you since the surrender. Come to think of it, I didn’t see you at the surrender.
Ethan Edwards (John Wayne): I don’t believe in surrenders. Nope, I’ve still got my saber, Reverend. Didn’t beat it into no plowshare, neither.
- The Searchers (1956)
For the past week the two quotes above have been swirling in my head. As quite a large group of Marines in my battalion (including myself) are getting out of the Corps in the upcoming months, I’ve been talking with a number of guys about mementos.
In my platoon it is customary to give a departing Marine, whether he leaves through a change of duty station, retirement, or simply the end of his enlistment, a plaque with his current rank, name, duty assignment, dates on station. We accompany that information with a brief quote or favorite remark uttered by that Marine to tie him to a specific time and place, a sort of crystallization of his character.
Quite a few of the Marines I’ve talked to said they’d like to put together a shadowbox as well, full of their medals, ribbons, citations, and rank insignia. For my own personal purposes, I’ve been somewhat lukewarm to the idea of a shadowbox. With one exception (my Good Conduct medal, which I had to continually strive for), to my line of thinking medals and ribbons aren’t much if there isn’t a chest behind them to fill them out. Citations and promotion warrants invariably look better framed.
Through my dad, my grandfather passed down to me two souvenirs from his naval service - his peacoat, and his Dixie cup (sailor) hat. Both are marked with his last name, first and middle initials, and Service Number. The peacoat fits me extremely well and is incredibly warm and in pristine condition, fifty long years after Gramps was in the Navy. Both are among my most prized possessions.
With my enlistment drawing to a close, I’ve been thinking about what I’d like to have as a memento to pass down to my own grandchildren. Unlike Gramps’ peacoat or Dixie Cup, my uniforms have much less personalization. My Service Uniform is merely stamped “SCHUTH WH” and (because it is tailored) probably couldn’t be worn by anyone other than me. My All Weather Coat is simply a grey trench coat, hardly a iconic thing to hand down. I doubt any of my camouflage utilities would make the cut, either.
The question was starting to vex me, until I hit upon the almost 150 year old solution.
From the Marines.com recruiting website:
?The sword symbolizes the military virtues and traditions maintained by noncommissioned officers, or NCOs. The sword’s origins are based in the decisions to discontinue the officer’s Mameluke sword and replace it with the Cavalry sword. Unpopular with many officers, the Corps reverted back to the original saber. When the Commandant officially switched the officer sword back, he decided to present the 1858 Cavalry sword to the NCOs in recognition of their leadership in combat. The NCO sword remains the oldest weapon in the U.S. services still in continued use. Only the Marine Corps has this distinction.”
At the same exact moment the NCO sword popped into my mind, I remembered the scene from The Searchers where Ethan (John Wayne) gives his nephew (or son, depending on your persuasion) Ben his saber. Ben hangs it over the fireplace in honor of Ethan.
A few moments later, Ethan tells fellow Civil War veteran Reverend Clayton that he still has his sword, and it is clear the sword symbolizes his spirit and dignity.
So, too, does the NCO sword symbolize mine. I spent 27 months waiting to become a noncommissioned officer, the single most important step in the enlisted Marine’s life. Those 27 months comprised the hardest struggle I’ve ever faced, a fight to prove my superiors were wrong in holding up my promotion while maintaining my dignity as a man and not a sycophant. I was determined to not to lick a single boot, even if it cost me the opportunity to ever wear that rank.
It seemed like forever, but eventually I made it. On 01 December 2005, my old boss, 1stSgt Fontaine, took off my Lance Corporal chevron and put a Corporal chevron in its place. I’d never been prouder of another personal achievement in my service, including when I was awarded the NAM. Part of that promotion included earning the right to carry the NCO sword. My entire enlistment was a progression to that point, that single moment the central focus of three years of grinding away well beyond the point I should have given up.
So, if I have my way, one day I’ll have an NCO sword to put up above my fireplace for safekeeping. I can tell my grandchildren about how it came to get there, what it stands for, and how much it meant to earn the right to carry it. It can be a lesson in perseverence for them, a tangible one that can be passed from one generation to the next.
I don’t ever want to see United 93 again.
As a platoon function, the guys I work with voted to spend the early portion of Thursday afternoon watching United 93. Having a decent idea of what was in store, I abstained from voting. To be honest, I really didn’t want to go. I still wish I didn’t watch that movie, wish I’d walked out, wish I could just forget everything it made me remember, but deep down, even though I hate admitting it, I’m grateful (though not glad) I saw it.
Not often does one go to a movie knowing exactly how the plot will unfold, exactly how the movie will end. From the moment United 93 starts, however, you know precisely what is going to happen. And, just like being in a horrible automobile wreck, it seems to unravel at a painfully slow pace, allowing your brain to grasp every horrific detail as it is presented. You’re strapped in, unable to alter the course of the action. Crying out changes nothing, closing your eyes does not prevent the worst from happening; it merely means you only refuse to accept the full burden of knowledge.
United 93 angered me in ways I haven’t been angry in years. It provoked and mocked me at every turn, forcing the light of reality into my writhing brain, dredging up memories with a galvanized blade, daring me to deny anything I was presented. I hated every minute of it, but I watched. No weak stomach or faintness of heart can excuse me of the responsibility I have to bear witness to everything that went on that day.
I’m grateful to be the age I am, to have had the window of opportunity presented to me to serve this country in the wake of an event that has changed the lives of every single American, and every single person on this earth. We have all been bystanders, and it is up to us to remember forever, no matter how painful or infuriating, what went on.
I remember being in the Butchery lab on the lower floor of Le Cordon Bleu, breaking down a side of beef, when one of the other students came into the classroom. The whine of the bandsaw I was using on the beef was too loud for me to hear what was said, but soon a friend came over. I turned the saw off, and he told me the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane. At first I thought he meant the Trade Center in St. Paul, where friends of mine were at work, but he clarified, saying it was one of the towers in Manhattan.
Class continued, but no one was paying attention. Students would wander out into the hall, listening to a radio that Eileen, the director of student resources, had placed outside her office. We slumped against the walls, listening to the every breaking report, conversing in small groups and low tones, muttering words like “JFK,” “Oklahoma City,” and “war” under our breath.
We went home that night, and I immediately headed to the store and bought whatever extra food I could afford, filled up the Volvo with fuel, and returned home to drink a good deal of Wild Turkey. The next day was my birthday, but my mind was no closer to turning twenty than Neptune is to the sun.
Less than a year later, only two months after finishing culinary school, I’d taken the oath of enlistment and was preparing to say goodbye to my family.
I was just one of many younger Americans who felt a call. I’ve served with guys from all over this country who left the plow standing in the middle of the field, either literally or figuratively, to be a part of what we hoped would be an effective solution. I’ve gone on patrols alongside a guy from New York City with an MBA who had friends that never made it out of the towers alive. I fought through boot camp, training schools, and a hostile ground tour with former firefighters, electricians, paramedics, undertakers, computer programmers, cops, college students, and pothead high school dropouts who had been scraping by with a job at McDonald’s. We weren’t there to stop IT from happening, but we were damned sure IT wouldn’t ever happen on our watch.
It’s hard to believe nearly five years have passed since The Day. My memories have been forced underground, compounded by the weight of almost four years in the military, a deployment to one of the nastiest places in Iraq, and the everyday silt that accumulates in the creases of the mind. Today those memories were shot to the surface and sandblasted clean.
Sadly, it was obvious that the new kids who have joined our unit, and who watched the film with us, don’t share the same perspective. Many of these kids were only in their mid-teens when IT went down, a scary adult problem, parents with worried looks, a few days off of school, then back to life again as normal. They don’t have much of a perception regarding how life shifted in the wake of those early autumn events five years ago. But for the guys I came in with, “normal” is a world we’ll never see again, a world we said goodbye to when we woke up that morning and went to work, to school. No matter how many of us stay in for a career or go on to other parts of our life after our time is up, we’ll always be the First Responders, the guys who remember the urgent feeling deep in our heart that we needed to take care of something.
United 93 brought anger, frustration, and sadness. For me, the anger and frustration was directed not at an ethnic group, a foreign government, or even a terrorist organization, but at us. We failed that day. Or rather, our system failed. The film confronts you with this bluntly:
Individuals crucial to the tracking of and reaction to the hijackings aren’t where they’re supposed to be, aren’t able to be contacted.
No one is communicating with anyone else, let alone in a timely or effective manner.
The Air Force has no standard operating procedure in place to deal with the situation (after the disbelieving supervisor finally confirms it to be a “real world” situation instead of a training operation or drill), and they have insufficient equipment and access to deal with the situation.
The Air Force can’t pass along RoE (Rules of Engagement) to their pilots. Shooting down a hijacked aircraft on a suicide run takes approval of the President of the United States, who can’t be contacted, even though he’s flying on Air Force One. When they finally do get the approval to shoot down suspicious aircraft, military commanders don’t take action, fearing they’ll make the wrong decision.
The Air Force had to clear emergency fighter jet patrols with the damn FAA. And the stupid sonsofbitches at the FAA denied their clearance.
Bullshit. All bullshit. The fact that we were sitting ducks, protected only by our own illusion of safety (witness the disbelief in the voice of every individual when told of a new hijacking), is one thing. But my true anger and frustration comes from my personal, first-hand knowledge and experience with the bureaucracy, politics, and red-tape that handcuffs the entire military and any associated governmental agency. It maimed us back then, and it continues to mortally wound us through the State and Defense departments’ mismanagement of the war.
The anger and frustration continues because five years later we’ve not come one step closer to catching the individuals ultimately responsible for the deaths of so many regular folks. We’ve mired ourselves in the quicksandish occupation of a nation which had absolutely no effective connection to the terrorist acts. We’ve killed innocents, ruined lives and entire cities, alienated an entire region of the planet, needlessly spilled the blood of our own military, and wasted trillions of dollars.
Meanwhile, the families of the dead are still without justice.
The sadness came from the telephone calls made by the passengers and stewardesses on board United Flight 93, the brief, choking goodbyes to loved ones and friends, the anguished thought in the back of my mind that one of them got a busy signal from their spouse, parent, or child’s telephone. The humanity of that situation is beyond anything of that I’ve ever experienced in any other film, the sadness more profound than any other emotion I’ve had provoked by art in my life.
The MPAA gave United 93 an “R” rating for “language, and some intense sequences of terror and violence.” I believe this to be a complete crock of bullshit as well. This film shouldn’t have received a rating at all. No one should have to see this, but everyone must in time shoulder the responsibility to remember.
Go see United 93. Don’t see it alone; go with the person you love the most. Hold that loving hand, put your arm around those shoulders, and think about how precious that individual is to you. Don’t look away or close your eyes, no matter how hard it is. Remember how you felt Then, look at where you’ve gone since Then, and then do something about changing the course of action.
Words and resolutions to get us out of Iraq, to alter the fight, will only do us so much. The killers are still at large, and the administration that is supposed to be pursuing them has completely failed to bring them to justice. Once again, it falls to the common people to charge the up the aisle and make right a situation out of control.
Here’s what I thought last night, and what I still think this afternoon after learning more about the original graphic novel and the Wachowski adaptation - V for Vendetta completely lifted the entire trappings of the Orwellian distopia canon without much more than a half-hearted attempt to disguise the piracy. It also excessively cribbed from Dumas and Phantom of the Opera, and overall, I thought it an overwrought melodrama infused with a near-camp romantic sub-plot between the leads, stereotypical pawns instead of characters, and the usual visual gimmickry.
The visual aspects were particularly frustrating for me. At times near-future London was wonderfully shot and gave some needed depth to the story, but the extended fight scene at the end, as well as any scene involving an explosion, left me with a feeling similar to the one that comes with eating too much cotton candy.
Equally priceless is the speech the character V gives near the end of his first scene, explaining himself:
“This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, as the once vital voice of the verisimilitude now venerates what they once vilified. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vangquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.
“The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose vis-à-vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.”
I practically gagged at the end of that. I’ve now been put off words starting with V for months.
The film wasn’t an entire waste, as it featured two excellent Stephens. Stephen Fry is extremely touching in a scene which undoubtedly is a candid direct reflection on his own personal struggles, something that will unfortunately be lost on the majority of Americans who will be unfamiliar with his biography, but which will resonate with British viewers. Stephen Rea plays the dogged chief inspector of police who is after Evey and V. I’d love to see Rea as Douglas Archer in a film adaptation of Len Deighton’s SS-GB, or in any film as John le Carre’s George Smiley. Being good enough to do justice to a role originally held by Sir Alec Guinness should say something.
Also, the wonderful little story of the character Valerie packs more emotion in fifteen minutes than the entire Evey/V romantic plotline, and briefly reminded me of the Bergman/Bogart Parisian love scenes in Casablanca.
Most of the controversy surrounding the movie seems to be V’s central tenet, which adheres to the typical “one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter” oversimplification.
V’s tone seems almost gleeful at times, especially when he talks of blowing up Parliament. The film takes the stance that violence can somehow be a purifying holy water which can serve as a sort of social catharses. If this indeed is the main message the Wachowskis are trying to send, I would suggest they turn their eyes to the Troubles in Ireland, or the still unresolved situation in the Middle East.
Curious to see what was behind the movie, I spent most of the late morning and early afternoon exploring the history and criticism surrounding it.
Rather tellingly, Alan Moore, author of the original graphic novel V for Vendetta, has called the Wachowski script “rubbish” and refused to have his name appear in the credits. Moore originally wrote the series as partial critique of the Thatcher government during the Eighties, partial exploration of the extremes of anarchy and fascism.
“It was imbecilic;” said Moore of the script in a recent interview, “it had plot holes you couldn’t have got away with in Whizzer And Chips in the nineteen sixties. Plot holes no one had noticed.”
Another hole, most likely purposely avoided, was V’s admiration for Guy Fawkes, which blossomed only out of Fawkes’ anti-establismentarian strivings, as highlighted in the opening of the film, without any reference to what Fawkes was actually trying to accomplish.
Those disaffected with the current regime in Washington might find the film’s suggestion that our own country is sliding closer to totalitarianism of the moment, even daring, but they shouldn’t need a film to tell them what is patently visible from a brief perusal of the news. Nor should they accept the solution the Wachowskis seem to advocate. In a case of the ends justifying the means, terrorism loses every time.
Frankly, if you’ve not seen V for Vendetta, don’t bother wasting your money on it unless you want to see an example of a film which raises plenty of questions and offers no meaningful or feasible solutions. Rather, wait for it to be released on DVD, then borrow it from someone you know. Far more worthy of your time are Enemy of the People, Brave New World, 1984, Neuromancer, Blade Runner, Gattaca, and Pink Floyd’s The Wall.
After we walked out of the theatre last night, Stan turned to me.
“We’ve seen good movies before,” he said.
“And that wasn’t one of them,” I finished.
Stan nodded.
I’m reading A Case of Need, by Michael Crichton, as a bit of an indulgence. Having actually read the book quite a few times in the past, there won’t be anything particularly new that I’ll be getting out of it this time around. But, for some reason, there is something about this book that just keeps me picking it up every couple of years and poring over it.
Part of it has to do with the very noir feel Crichton gave it without being overt about it. The book reads very much like most modern mysteries, with pared-down prose and an emphasis on the direction of the narrative. But there are other things at work, too, little bits of palpable atmosphere and mood that Crichton managed to steep his words in, and which give the book a kind of Dashiell Hammett, Erle Stanley Gardner, or Raymond Chandler quality. There isn’t overt menace in the book, but one certainly feels the ravenous heat of the medical world as the main character, pathologist Dr. John Berry, attempts to exonerate his close friend from a charge of murder.
In high school and during culinary school I passed my time reading quite a few books by Hammett, Gardner, and (in particular) Chandler. Not only were they rich in how they described a place and time, but the characters were vivid arresting, jumping off the page with a near-cinematic quality to them. In my mind’s eye, I could see Philip Marlowe played by Humphrey Bogart, long before I was aware that Bogie had actually played Marlowe.
I suspect that, in the age we live in, quite a few people think cinematically when they read a novel. On the second or third time through a book is when this method of relating to the story tends to hit me - I will often discard the image of the characters in my mind from the first time around with the book, instead filling out the cast of the book as if I were preparing to film a movie.
Thus, this time around, Dr. John Berry is Edward Norton in my mind and Dr. J.D. Randall (father of the murdered girl) is Gene Hackman. Other parts are filled by character actors, like James Cromwell as the police captain who continues to discourage Berry from helping his friend. I wonder if these actors fall into their roles because I subconsciously typecast them, or if their particular mannerisms seem natural extensions of the characters.
Movies seem to have the advantage in capturing and influencing the imagination over books, as their images can be continually replayed in the theatre of the mind. Books often make excellent foundations for movie scripts, and it seems quite easy to turn a successful book into a blockbuster, but the magic appears to only work one way. When was the last time you saw a movie which later appeared in book form and actually preferred the novel to the film itself?
[Part of the WordPress revolution]
|
car·riage re·turn n. the lever or mechanism on a typewriter that would cause the cylinder on which the paper was held (the carriage) to return to the left margin of the page Search (↵)Way-back Machine
Categories
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
"So much for Objective Journalism. Don’t bother to look for it here -- not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms." About
InternalFeedsCopyright Info
|
24 queries. 1.714 seconds
