Category Archives: westerns

Review of Django Unchained

Django Unchained Poster

American Director Quentin Tarantino’s latest offering, Django Unchained plays out as a spaghetti western revenge fantasy set in the antebellum Old South instead of the Wild West. Like Tarantino’s other work, this film seems to be primarily concerned with demonstrating its own coolness, from its sharply witty dialogue, to its everything-goes soundtrack, to its lovingly shot cinematography, to its slow-motion explosions of graphic violence.  As its several Oscar nods testify, the larger-than-life spectacle of Django Unchained represents precisely the type of film that puts butts in seats, even with a Christmas Day opening.

As always Tarantino puts his cultural obsessions on full display, with the result that this film will no doubt prove to be as thoroughly adored by his fans as it is reviled by his detractors.  Fellow American director Spike Lee, himself no stranger to making racially charged films, has famously refused even to see Django Unchained on the grounds that it is “disrespectful” to those who suffered slavery.  Even in the pages of Portland’s own cooler-than-thou hipster ragWillamette Week, Matthew Singer (“Unchained and Unrestrained”) has reluctantly admitted the film has super-cool cache before settling in to ask of its director: “But has he made a responsible film?”

That’s a hard question to ask about a mainstream American film.  But in fact exactly these types of questions have been at the core of discussions about art for centuries and have particularly vexed Americans at least since the antebellum era, the same historical period Tarantino views through his own anachronism-tinted lens.  Is the purpose of art fundamentally didactic?  That is, should art be “responsible” to teach us proper moral lessons?  Or must art exist essentially on its own terms representing simply art for art’s sake?  As you can guess without even going into the history of aesthetics, these questions of morality signal some very fundamental issues about art and its social functions.

We’re unlikely to sort through the myriad issues here.  But since the question of morality is one that viewers and reviewers keep asking about Django Unchained, clearly at some level the moral implications of this film need to be addressed.  But first, let’s take a slightly closer look at the film it’s being asked about.

In the title role, Jamie Foxx finds himself suddenly freed from slavery by a German immigrant named Dr. King Schultz (Christoph Waltz) who has turned from dentistry to bounty hunting.   Although he despises slavery, Schultz needs Django’s help to find three outlaws.  He pays off a pair of odious slavers, giving them money for Django, but then promptly gets him a horse and frees him.  Then after enlisting the former slave’s help on one job – a job that entails killing three white men on a Tennessee plantation no less – Schultz invites Django to partner with him and collect more bounties.  After Django accepts, Schultz teaches him how to read, how to shoot, and most importantly how to play the various roles he will need to take on as a bounty hunter.  In fact, in many ways this idea of play-acting drives much of the film’s tension for its central characters – the disjunction between appearance and reality.

Consider one of the film’s most brilliant and ridiculous images.  Schultz rides around the countryside in a horse-drawn wagon crowned by a big plaster tooth, an enormous molar that bounces around on a spring attached to the top of the wagon.  The absurdity of that bobbing tooth is one of the films most delightful touches.  It’s vaguely anachronistic and deliberately strange, just like Schultz himself who hasn’t practiced dentistry for years.  He’s gone from removing rotten teeth from people’s mouths to removing rotten people from society.  Schultz makes it a point that he doesn’t attempt to capture these criminals because doing so would presents him with too much personal danger.  Instead, he just kills them outright and turns in their bodies for cash.  Schultz goes about this brutal profession with a knowing grin and snappy patter worthy of a Raymond Chandler novel.  Not only does this demonstrate his unassailable cool in the Tarantino universe, but it also underscores his position as an outsider.

Schultz’s first name is telling here too.  King, like a king, recognizes that laws are essentially fiction but he’s a consummate manipulator of those laws to his own advantage.  Throughout the film, Schultz often makes a point of following the letter of the law, using such legalities and social fictions as a form of domination.  Clearly, Schultz does not respect the “law” of the South’s peculiar institution and this is precisely why he sets about helping Django to subvert it.

Django, on the other hand, despises even the appearance of such “law.”  He plays along only in so far as he must to save his own life and the lives of those he cares about.  Like Schultz, he recognizes that the “law” is arbitrary and cruel.  However, because one cannot finally work revolution from within the system, ultimately Django must become an “outlaw” to rescue his beloved and to enact his revenge.  This playing of roles has revealed to him, and to the viewer, the way in which even seemingly natural social orders are always essentially fiction because they are founded on imaginary constructs.  In order to liberate those oppressed by such ideologies, the entire edifice must be razed.

By playing out its fairly standard western revenge fantasy within the context of the antebellum South, Django Unchained achieves triumph for its hero, and by extension vindicates and cinematically avenges those who suffered under the holocaust of American slavery.  And it accomplishes this feat by subscribing to that same credo of racial empowerment that Spike Lee himself has espoused – “Uplift by any means necessary.”

But is Django Unchained moral?

Indeed, it is not.  To achieve its artistic goals, this film can’t accept such constraints because ultimately art that is deliberately “moral” always shades into the moralistic.  What we term “morality” in such contexts tends to refer to the unquestioning didactic support of the artist’s own social values.  This is why Triumph of Will, Leni Riefenstal’s masterpiece of Nazi propaganda remains the ultimate example of a moral film – it recites for its viewers the lessons they should already have learned so well.  For the same reason, many of Spike Lee’s films, such as Jungle Fever and Bamboozled can be seen as moral films.  They tell us how we’re supposed to think about race.  Of course, Lee is too smart of a filmmaker to make pure propaganda, which is why his best films continue to interest us and provoke important cultural discussions.  But the impulse, by Lee or anyone, to limit films to expressing pre-approved moral messages, whether those ideas are about race or American history or whatever, is frankly troubling.

This film shows us what was or should have been the cultural results of the Civil War – black heroes rising triumphantly against their white oppressors.  Instead, American filmmakers gave us such enshrined classics as Birth of a Nation and Gone with the Wind, films that have tended validate or whitewash America’s evil past.  For whatever historical inaccuracies it contains, Django Unchained stands as a corrective to such earlier apologia.  It might not beAmistad or The Color Purple but I agree with Bob Cesca’s assessment that this difference iswhy Django Unchained is one of the most important movies of the year – precisely because it will be seen by such a different audience than those which that saw either of the other films.  Instead, this film shows the ugliness and violence of our national conflicts in all their horrible majesty.  It pits the most treasured of American ideals, those embodied in the gun slinging western hero, against the of the most egregious of America’s offenses against its own notional identity, the institution of human slavery.

Django Unchained stands forth as a truly brilliant film, a deeply American masterpiece of contemporary cinema.

<<This review is cross-posted with the Marylhurst Blog>>

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Review of The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt

Don’t get the wrong idea when you notice that seal on the cover saying that The Sisters Brothers was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.  Yes, this quirky crime novel dressed up in cowboy clothes may owe more to its high-falutin literary roots than to its “genre” kin, but it tells a compelling and character-driven story for all that.  Reviewers have waxed witty in describing this novel, and a number of them have been right on the money.  The LA Times compares this to something that could be written by the author of No Country for Old Men and The Road, that is “if Cormac McCarthy had a sense of humor.”  Esquire magazine describes this novel as “a kind of True Grit told by Tom Waits.”  Both these comparisons are pretty apt.  Sisters Brothers can be grim and violent at times but it wins you over with its strangely loveable characters and its infectiously funny narrative voice.

Our narrator is Eli Sisters, the more amiable of the two title characters, who are a duo of hired killers from Oregon City in 1851.  Hired by a ruthless boss known only as The Commodore, Eli and Charlie set out on a horseback trek to Sacramento, California, where they are to murder a gold miner named Hermann Kermit Warm.  Along the way, the brothers encounter all manner of colorful Old West characters, but I wouldn’t describe the novel as picaresque, as some reviewers have done.  The initial goal of finding and murdering Warm remains the primary motivation of action throughout the novel, even if Charlie and Eli get into other scrapes along the way.

Charlie Sisters is cold-blooded killer, and even if Eli is slightly less of a sociopath than his brother, he’s not above drawing his pistol when he sees red.  As you can well imagine, there’s plenty of brutal violence in this novel, some of it bizarrely casual.  While it’s never gratuitous, readers should still be prepared for some blood.

But any coarseness aside, this is a beautifully written novel.  The prose feels deliberately awkward, almost angular with its choppy yet poetic phrases.  If you’re at all curious about this novel, try reading the first chapter – it’s only two pages long.  That small taste will let you know if this is a book you might fall in love with because what ultimately draws you in here is deWitt’s gift for presenting Eli’s narrative with grace and clarity.  Through the oddly charming voice of this deeply troubled character, we begin to understand and to sympathize with Eli’s slightly off-kilter view of the world.  As readers, we find ourselves connecting with him as he begins to question this horrible way of life that he and his brother have chosen for themselves.  As we turn the pages, we cannot help but hope that the Sisters Brothers can find a way to escape this darkness of their own making.


Review of A Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick

If you had picked up this book and admired the cover, relishing the promise of a devious noir tale set in the snowy bleakness of small town Wisconsin in 1907, you would have perhaps decided to purchase the book, carrying to the front counter of the book store a thick paper bundle made slightly for substantial in your hand by the weight of your expectations. You would have remembered so many other books you had purchased in this way, taking them home and cozying up on the couch with a cup of hot English tea, mixed with a little milk poured from a grocery store carton and honey harvested from local hives. As you stood there, stirring your tea together with the milk and honey, you would have felt the poignancy of rising anticipation building in your breast as you thought of that book sitting in the other room on a little mahogany table beside the end of the couch, just under the curved swoop of your favorite reading lamp.

Perhaps you would have been struck by the anachronistic use of second person to set the scene, but perhaps too you would have been dazed by the lush prose and the languid sentences. Perhaps you would have shrugged off the long tedious exposition as a delightfully droll devise for providing background information about the story that you believed to be on the verge of beginning any page now. After all, you were learning about the characters. You knew now how Ralph Truitt was so rich that he bought and sold the two thousand other people who lived in his town but how he secretly worried very much about how these people regarded him. You knew too how Ralph was a lonely widower and how during long cold nights especially he was above all extremely sexually frustrated and jealous of all the other townsfolk who he imagined were having frequent and satisfying intimate relations with each other. You knew now how Catherine Land was not what she seemed but more of a schemer, a woman of considerable if fading beauty who had finally determined that she would not reach the end of her life without having attained for herself either a great love or an enormous amount of money. And yet, for all your reading of the two lengthy chapters of the novel, this was the sum of your knowledge. The first chapter described him waiting on the train platform with all these internal thoughts and background stories; the second chapter provided the same exhaustive character sketch for her.

Perhaps you would have taken a deep breath then to shake off your frustration with such an obviously capable writer choosing to tell you all these things about the characters rather than showing you things about the characters and allowing you to draw your own conclusions about their personalities and motivations by experiencing them actually doing things. But, forgiving soul that you are, you would have gone quietly to the kitchen to refill your tea cup, remixing the perfect blend of milk and honey, and pausing there as you set down the spoon to refill your patience.

Back on the sofa, you would have felt pleasure upon reading the first line of the third chapter for it seemed at last that here was action: “She stepped into snow.” Reading on, you find that the prose still has the over-rich, languid quality of the first two chapters, but now at last things were happening. Slowly, yes, but they were happening. Ralph and Catherine were meeting on the train platform. Her clothes were too cheap and thin for the Wisconsin blizzard. Ralph’s words nearly betrayed his preoccupation with avoiding the searching eyes of the townsfolk. And most tellingly for the story to come, Catherine had deceived Ralph in her letter, sending him a photograph not of herself but of another woman she now claimed was her cousin. This deception irritates Ralph and he tells her that whoever she is she should know that their relationship begins with a lie. Then they take his carriage from the station to his house, and barely speaking, they revert to their interior thoughts where you are again made privy to all their fears and hopes, their frustrations and worries. As you’re reading this third chapter, you are now convinced this one should have started the novel instead when the editor excised the first two like a dental surgeon removing wisdom teeth that are not only unneeded but also tend to crowd their more useful fellows. You might even notice as you’re reading that full sentences of exposition from the first two chapters find themselves repeated and reiterated here, and at the end of this third chapter, though it’s started to give you hints of the story, you decide to lay the book aside.

Lovely prose does not a compelling novel make. Perhaps you will decide to re-read Louisa May Alcott’s novella “Behind a Mask” instead. It’s a similar tale in some ways and much more deftly told.