I assume anyone who reads this blog also follows me on Twitter, so you would know why I haven’t updated here recently. That’s because I’ve started a publishing company, The Critical Press, which will be publishing short and medium-length books on film criticism, history, and culture. The first titles will be published this fall, starting with Peter Labuza’s Approaching the End: Imagining Apocalypse in American Film, in October. Be sure to follow us on Twitter, Facebook, or the press blog!
I have still been doing reviews here and there for InReview Online, as well as very occasionally updating LetterBoxd. Here are some recent ones. I’ll try to keep this space better updated going forward:
At InReview Online:
The Criterion Collection’s selection of films on Hulu Plus is a boon for any cinephile, and compared to Netflix offers a superior collection of classic and foreign films available to watch instantly. Not every Criterion title is available, but many are— including hundreds of titles Criterion has not released on disc at all. Included in the latter group is Elaine May’s 1976 film Mikey and Nicky, a film that follows two Jewish gangsters played by Peter Falk and John Cassavetes around New York in the course of one night. It’s a film that deserves recognition as a key work of American cinema of the 1970s, right beside other canonical urban crime dramas like Mean Streets (1973), Dog Day Afternoon (1975), and other portraits of frustrated men struggling to adjust to a post-Vietnam world in which the American dream has been exposed as hollow and corrupt, where their preferred way of living isn’t enough to account for the vast changes in the world around them.
Read the rest at In Review Online.
I’ve caught up with a number of 2013 releases on Letterboxd:
The Lone Ranger (3/5)
Frances Ha (4/5)
Inside Llewyn Davis (4.5/5)
Captain Phillips (2/5)
Finally, I re-watched The Master (5/5) after the news came in of Hoffman’s death. I still think it’s his greatest performance, in a career full of great ones.
Over at In Review Online, I’ve written about Peter Bogdanovich’s first feature film, Targets:
“All the good movies have been made,” laments Sammy Michaels, a young but creatively frustrated filmmaker played by Peter Bogdanovich in his own writing and directing debut Targets. He’s trying to convince classic horror-film star Byron Orlok (Boris Karloff, essentially playing himself) not to retire early, but is distracted by Orlok’s performance in Howard Hawks’s The Criminal Code (1931) on television. It is probably the most meta scene in a very meta-movie, one riddled with anxieties about the place and purpose of the cinema in an era that seemed to be moving past a need for its distractions and pleasures.
Read the whole thing here.
“Some Day this Country’s Gonna Be a Fine, Good Place to Be”: Reading Glenn Frankel’s The Searchers: The Making of an American Legend
I’m dusting this off: a partially completed review of a book I wrote at the beginning of the summer. I wanted to do something more with it, but day job + small baby = no real time. It’s a bit rambling and clearly could use some more fleshing out, but it’s nearly the end of the year and soon this “new book review” will be a “review of book from last year.” Which is all well and good, but, you know, timeliness is nice.
Can we really afford to keep saying “them” instead of “us?” Is it useful to keep looking back at the past, disowning what we don’t like and attributing it to laughably failed versions of our perfectly enlightened selves? Should we really give ourselves the license to remake film history as we would like it to be by eliding certain details and amplifying others…The question is, how do we live with it?
– Kent Jones, “Intolerance”
The easiest way to misread The Searchers is to forget that its title is plural. So iconic is the protagonist of John Ford’s 1956 film – John Wayne’s obsessive, relentless, cruel Ethan Edwards – that the image of him standing in a doorway, clutching his arm before turning and walking away can easily cause us to forget the rest of the film. David Brooks made this error recently when, in an op-ed about the decline of traditional jobs for American men in the new economy, he opens with an extended ode to the film and the values it was lamenting:
The movie’s West was a wild, lawless place, requiring a certain sort of person to tame it. As the University of Virginia literary critic Paul Cantor has pointed out, that person had prepolitical virtues, a willingness to seek revenge, to mete out justice on his own. That kind of person, the hero of most westerns, is hard, confrontational, raw and tough to control.
But, as this sort of classic western hero tames the West, he makes himself obsolete. Once the western towns have been pacified, there’s no need for his capacity for violence, nor his righteous fury.
What Brooks doesn’t mention, but which is explicit in the title of the film, is that Wayne is not a solo actor. Brooks mentions offhand that “new sorts of people” will populate the west, but fails to note that these people are already there in the film. There is the extended network of homesteaders, Texas Rangers, U.S. Cavalry troops, Mexican trackers, and of course Comanche Indians that make up the post-Civil War Texas of the film’s setting, and there is even the second searcher of the title. Martin Pauley (Jeffrey Hunter) could, as easily as Ethan, hold the mantle as the symbolic representation of the white settlers of the Texas frontier. Of course Wayne is the center of the action, the looming presence anchoring the whole story, but he is also a man set apart from a complex society largely ambivalent about Ethan’s obsessions. The Searchers shows us the Wayne archetype as just one part of a social fabric, and ultimately perhaps not an important one.
If we are to better understand The Searchers, then it is essential to get a fuller picture of the people and communities that the characters travel through. These are the places the part-Cherokee Martin comes from, where Debbie moves between, from which Ethan is ultimately excluded. Glenn Frankel’s new book The Searchers: The Making of an American Legend (Bloomsbury) does a lot of work in sketching out the historical antecedents of the film’s fictionalized portrayal of this land. The book is a history not only of the production of the film, but also of the long and fascinating pre-history of the real-life inspiration for it. Most of the book is about Cynthia Ann Parker, a girl abducted in Texas by Comanches in 1836; her uncle who spent eight years searching for her; and her Comanche son Quanah who went on to become chief of the Comanches in the late 19th-century. Only in the book’s final third does Frankel move onto a history of the film itself, but his historical framing sheds some interesting extra-textual light on Ford’s work and in how we can better understand it and its legacy.
Though The Searchers continues to sit high on the list of canonical American films, its very success at dramatizing the moral costs of Westward expansion means that it can often come under criticism. Last year, director Quentin Tarantino lashed out at Ford and his entire oeuvre. The immediate reason was that Ford had acted as a Ku Klux Klan extra in D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, but also because, “It really is people like [Ford] that kept alive this idea of Anglo-Saxon humanity compared to everybody else’s humanity — and the idea that that’s hogwash is a very new idea in relative terms.”
Ford wasn’t a great artist in spite of the contradictory imperatives of his films but because of them. His films don’t live apart from the shifts in American culture and the demands of the film industry, but in dialogue with them. Do those films provide the models of racial enlightenment that we expect today? Of course they don’t. On the other hand, they are far more nuanced and sophisticated in this regard than the streamlined commentaries that one reads about them, behaviorally, historically, and cinematically speaking…Maybe it’s time to stop searching for moral perfection in artists.
It’s wrong to say that The Searchers is not racist; doing so would be whitewashing its own peculiar attitude toward Native Americans. The film’s central tension – that the protection and rescue of white settlers is necessary and important, but that there was something damaging about fulfilling that mission – is what makes it work, and its what makes John Wayne’s Ethan Edwards such a fascinating and complicated figure.
You don’t have to agree with Ford’s (admittedly complex) politics to engage with the film. As the story of Cynthia Ann Parker shows, the film is, in fact, densely metatextual. It’s a quality Tarantino should appreciate, of course. His most recent film, Django Unchained, is about our perception of a certain time in American history, our own need to mythologize it and the damage that myth has wreaked on our national consciousness. Whether Tarantino is entirely successful is, I think, still an open question, but it’s not a vastly different project from The Searchers itself. Indeed, American history – especially the history shaped by myth and legend – is an essential component of Ford’s entire filmography.
This historical engagement continues to make The Searchers such a captivating experience, even if you manage to distance yourself from the images and the sheer magnificence of the craft. Ford looks at a central component of the American mythos and finds it lacking. There is no justification for Ethan Edwards, just as there is, truly, no justification for the genocide of the Native Americans.
But despite the essential moral bankruptcy of the cause, Ford and the film maintain its necessity to the very end, even while condemning it. Ethan is a monster, but he’s a necessary monster. Holding these two notions together, uncomfortably and perhaps even unsuccessfully, is the film’s true purpose. The growth of community, the endurance of the frontier spirit, the binding power of family, the successful resolution of trauma and the end of violent conflict: these are all essential to The Searchers and to Ford’s ideology more generally. But they all sit uneasily beside an inescapable truth: that these things exist because others have been destroyed.
Captivity narratives were popular from the early days of European settlement, but Cynthia Ann Parker’s tale, in particular, became a prominent cornerstone of Texas legend. Captured in 1836 following the slaughter of much of her extended family, she lived among the Comanches for a quarter century, marrying into the tribe and giving birth to several children. She was eventually “rescued” as part of a vain public relations stunt on the eve of the Civil War.
Little concrete information about her time with the Comanches exists, but fascination with her life made her, like the Alamo, an important part of a self-fashioned Texan origin myth. Cynthia Ann never wrote down her experiences, but her surviving family members attempted to do so for her, and their memoirs and recollections were published and widely read. Her story had all the hallmarks that made captivity narratives so beloved: the white girl violently snatched from her family at a young age, raised as an Indian, returning years later to her family a different (and no longer virginal) woman unable to cope and survive in “the white man’s world.”
Frankel traces the afterlife of Parker’s story (the remainder of her short life was spent lonely and sad in Texas) through her son Quanah, which seems to have little to do directly with The Searchers. Quanah went on to play a central role in the political life of the Native American reservation in Oklahoma after the end of the Indian Wars. Self-proclaimed “last chief” of the Comanche, Quanah negotiated land rights with cattle ranchers and worked with the federal government on the terms of resettlement. He lead his people, often to the distress and anger of his fellow Comanches, to a way of life – settled, “civilized,” Christianized – approved by the white settlers.
Quanah was, by all accounts, a charming man and gregarious host, but one reason for his successful relationships with white Americans was that he was half-white himself, son of a Comanche father and white mother. Any of the qualities whites admired in him – his intelligence, ambition, willingness to give up the traditional Comanche lifestyle – would always be attributed to this fact. Quanah’s success allowed white people to feel good about themselves and the progress of Indian civilization without ever actually having to revise their own prejudices about Indian society.
The Parker family’s odyssey was a story that took place alongside other key moments of Texan history. Cynthia Ann and Quanah intersect again and again with a large cast of characters, powerful figures from America’s past: Sam Houston, William Tecumseh Sherman, Theodore Roosevelt. The Parker family was already well-known and their story often adapted into various forms before Ford ever came around to it. Embellished through the years, the Parker legend continued to find its way into dime novels, Wild West shows, plays, and operas up through the 1950s, when novelist Alan Le May came upon it and wrote the novel The Searchers. He took the focus off of Cynthia Ann and onto her obsessive, half-mad uncle, James, who had unsuccessfully searched for her in the years immediately following her capture.
This is one reason why Frankel’s book gives so much space to Quanah, who gets written out of Ford’s version of the story. (Though Quanah did make an appearance as the villain in Ford’s 1961 Two Rode Together, played by the same actor who played Chief Scar in The Searchers, Henry Brandon.) It shows the paths not taken, the stories left untold by Le May and Ford’s adaptation. By reorienting the story and refocusing its emotional core not on the captive woman or any of the Comanches themselves, but on her white family and the society left behind, Le May and Ford transform a popular story about the history of the American West into a full-blown mythology of the American West. The Comanches (and by extension, any hypothetical children of Debbie’s) are defeated at the end of the film. Unlike with Quanah, there is little indication that they had a history that would continue into the modern world. The Searchers was exclusively a white man’s tale now.
Today, if people think about Cynthia Ann Parker at all, it is only through the lens of John Ford, John Wayne, and Monument Valley. The Searchers did for the story of the Parker family and Texas what Thomas Malory’s Le Mort Darthur did for King Arthur and Britain: it codified a set of national legends and became the lens through which all future examinations of it would be viewed. You can no longer talk about the history of Cynthia and Quanah in detail without making it, ultimately, about The Searchers, about our representation of American history instead of about American history proper. Her story is a stand-in for American memory, its appropriations by others, and how power rewrites the history of its own transgressions.
The last portion of Frankel’s book contains brief biographies of Ford and Wayne and a summary of the production of the film. There’s little new here to anyone familiar with these two men and their body of work, but Frankel does a good job at sketching them out and outlining a lot of their career-long interests, such as Ford’s relationship to the American immigrant experience or Wayne’s development and finessing of his iconic persona.
It is that persona, of course, which looms so large over the film’s legacy. It is what writers like David Brooks continue to look toward as a model of masculine identity. The figure of Edwards, and Wayne himself, exerts a gravitational pull on the rest of the film. But, as I mentioned at the start, The Searchers is not only Ethan’s story. This is what Brooks misses, and what Frankel’s book reminds us: even as The Searchers becomes centered more and more on the figure of the lone white man, the historical accretion (both in actual history and Hollywood’s invented history of the west) of other lives keeps poking through, keeps interrupting Ethan’s quest and insisting that he take account of where he stands in relation to the rest of human society. And, more importantly, what he stands for, whether it be the purity and virtue of white women or the commitment to supporting and sustaining the communities around him. The whole film rests upon how Ethan ultimately conceives of his moral and ethical duties to other people. The tension of the film’s climax, after all, is whether or not Ethan will kill Debbie. In other words, whether he will continue to adhere to his own bloody moral code or let society work its own way without his input or presence.
What, then, does Cynthia Ann Parker tell us about Ethan Edwards? She tells us that The Searchers remains relevant and important because we have never moved beyond it. We know its politics are bad even while believing them to be, in our collective imagination, somehow true. The history of Cynthia Ann and Quanah Parker becomes subsumed by their legend, which in turn is transformed into “a fable” (as Frankel calls the film) not about their actual lives but about what their lives meant to the invading white man, the winner of the conflict and the one who is still writing history.
The blog now has an archive of reviews and scribblings (also accessible through the top or left sidebar) of films over the last year. As I note there, most are not real reviews, just brief thoughts I have about things shortly after I see them. Most are from Letterboxd. Anyway, they are there in the event anyone is interested in reading my opinions on Muppet Treasure Island.
I post occasionally pieces on Letterboxd, which I find is a real nice way to keep up with what various movie people are currently watching and thinking about. This week, I ranked Wes Anderson’s films after revisiting most of them in the wake of Matt Zoller Seitz’s new book The Wes Anderson Collection, and I thought a bit about the 1960 Spartacus and how to approach it as something other than Kubrick’s least favorite film.