Gone With the Wind (1939)

Dir. Victor Fleming
Writ. Based on Margaret Mitchell's novel, and Sidney Howard's screenplay w/ no credit to Ben Hecht, David O. Selznick, Jo Swerling, John Van Druten
w/ Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, Olivia de Havilland, Leslie Howard, Butterfly McQueen

The mixed reactions this film's very mention usually elicits from folks holds both merit and misconception. Certainly this is a film dealing in most part with the South and the Civil War and all of its various repercussions, but darker elements at play here involve, mainly, the roles of women in an ever-changing and often hostile, unpredictable setting. Southern dramas all the way back to colonial times usually seem to involve sniping women who take potshots at each other hushedly but must maintain a colossally gracious poker face while among polite society. To do anything else could disgrace the family name or, worse, pull their most hidden thoughts into the open, allowing society to dismiss them as the imps that the very system essentially renders them. Adding to this ridiculous and frustrating social paradox, their roles don't get better after they get the men they're trying to, as in order to get what they want from their husbands, they must resort to sexual manipulation as though it were course de nature. In this context, the women never seem to develop any real maturity, strength of character, or lasting independence from the vulgar, tasteless monopoly that tradition and the unchecked power of male dominance has handed to them like a plaything. In this sense, slavery gets expanded to the context of all Southerners, but especially to that of females. It's just social custom that if a woman wants to be thought of as such that she must constantly prove her powers of conquest, whether she does so openly or not.

That being said, while most historians may agree that women and children are the first and foremost victims of war, in the case of Scarlett Katy O'Hara quite the opposite is true. The war is in many ways her freedom and her grace. It provides the distraction required for her to detach from a pre-ordained role and outgrow it in leaps and bounds. That's not always obvious while watching the rash little vixen, of course. Vivien Leigh pursues the less likeable qualities of the often dubious heroine with gusto, a gale force to be reckoned with at every turn of the camera. And my, oh my: the camera guy had his work cut out for him. Watching her sometimes it's not hard to think that she really might be on coke or at least some seriously concentrated ephedrine. Somewhere between her doting father who'd do anything to try and make her life more harmonious and her more rigid mother who'd prefer her daughter just make her proud, though, Scarlett has some hope to turn her life around and stop embarrassing them.

Clark Gable as Rhett Butler -- a role that actually was auditioned for by Reagan (though God only knows why, I guess) -- seems to find her utterly charming while at the same time being fully aware of her stupefying number of flaws. He courts her, wins her, and marries her at last. Unfortunately for him, it's just not all necessarily in that order. His oblivious wife pines for another woman's husband, a longtime family friend that never had any interest in her beyond that of the familial. Olivia de Havilland, possibly one of the old screen's most overlooked and forgotten pearls of wisdom, reigns supreme as the understatedly compassionate woman who knows of Scarlett's covetousness and befriends her genuinely, and stays beside her even as Scarlett tries to coax the woman's husband away from her. All in all, it makes for compelling drama, just in case the War itself isn't enough of an eye-opener, but Rhett's heels cool by and by and, after their daughter dies, he packs up and leaves Scarlett to sort out her own mess while she's still in mourning...a really poignant moment.

A slave to herself, she's left to cope with the atrocities of war as she tries to run a household, stay alive, and keep what's left of the family intact. Thus becomes the grasshopper an ox. Four hours may seem like a long time to watch a movie (222 minutes, to be precise) and there's no denying that it is, but a lot of ground gets covered. After all, we have evil carpetbaggers to reckon with, the effects of the war to absorb, and a lot of the after-effects, too. Butterfly McQueen, playing house servant Prissy so well that most can't tell she's acting, becomes more and more mesmerized by a make-believe world that she slips into to escape the gruesome and demanding realities of a Georgia thrust into chaos and a household driven to ruins.

If there's any relationship that Margaret Mitchell understands, it's one of predator and prey. The carpetbaggers prey on the south's stately beauty, undermining that old, reliable sense of faith in one's neighbors, and essentially what the authoress has done is canonize Southern women as survivors of a sexual Holacaust and a war that General Lee never bothers to show up and apologize for. She leaves the area of slavery practically alone, perhaps thinking that the larger issue was the plight of women. Slyly insinuating the slaves of the day as sexless, mindless beings could prove to be better commentary than any really blunt exploration of the issue may have provided. It is possibly more important that the women who form the focus of the story are so unaware of why the war is even being fought or how important it is to so many people. It speaks to their belittlement, the darkness that they have been kept in by men who felt ignorance would be the best way to run a household. It also stays true to the Southern culture itself, which had little interest in the outside world but wished to establish itself as aristocracy or at least landed gentry. What we're left with as a result of this comparatively small mindset is a sense of real nerve and real backbone. After Lee's and Sherman's troops have decimated the countryside, the women -- and even Scarlett herself -- take to the infirmaries to care for the sick and then, eventually, return to the land, their heritage, and their dignity.

Camille (1936)

Dir. George Cukor
Writ. Zoe Akins, Frances Merion, James Hilton, from Alexandre Dumas-fils' play & novel
w/ Greta Garbo, Robert Taylor, Lionel Barrymore, Elizabeth Allan, Henry Daniell, Rex O'Mally
D.P. William Daniels, A.S.C. and Karl Freund, A.S.C.

Garbo's effortless screen presence, Cukor's somewhat quirky direction, and vibrant cinematography bring this "archaic creaker" to life. [1] In 1847 Paris, young courtesan Marguerite Gauthier spends much of her time at the theatres attracting lovers, and much of the contents of their pocketbooks acquiring new dresses to attract fresh prey. Days and nights sail by while Marguerite frivolously anticipates new parties and dalliances, her only seeming annoyance being fellow courtesan and rival, Olympe. Insistent upon making every new prospect a competitive object, Olympe reminds the disaffected Marguerite that she is from the country and not gay, witty Paris.

"Cows and chickens," Garbo quips, "make better friends than any I have ever met in Paris." [2]

The trouble basically begins when the heroine mistakes distant admirer Armand for a Baron with whom she had had a brief acquaintanceship. Despite the fact that the faithful suitor had cast his eye upon her much earlier, he departs and the real Baron, an unsavory type, shows up. The smile on Marguerite's face soon vanishes to be replaced with hidden bouts with illness and a lot of anguish that neither of her gentleman callers ever witness. She spends the better part of the film torturing and being tortured by the two men, but her heart belongs to Armand. If only that pesky cough would go away...ah, well. In order to regain her strength and enjoy a certain amount of happiness with Armand, the couple absconds to the countryside. But when he returns to Paris to settle his estate for their future security and well-being, his dastardly father seeks out Marguerite as a woman of ill repute who can bode no good for his heir. Alone and with no one to turn to, our poor and wretched heroine spends a day in bitter tears, hardening her heart so that she can have the strength to leave Armand to a better life and a better love.[3]

Whether or not this adaptation reeks of a morality study seems moot; that it is more so than Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge certainly feels correct enough. She's doomed throughout the movie to a fate befitting someone of her station, or so it seems. But while the audience understands what she does for a living, Garbo's Marguerite lets us forget it somehow, emphasizing instead the more interesting intricacies of humor, kindness, and undying love in a cruel, cruel world. There aren't many movies made these days in which lead actresses can take such lattitude. Famed for her droopy-shouldered nonchalance, and incredibly beautiful with that scarless face and skin, she breathes life into this role beyond the returnable capabilities of most of the cast. The male leads just don't seem to be able to do her talents justice, really. The script inconsistency also remains a notable flaw, which would explain some of the longer bits in which, instead of interacting with his camera-mate, Robert Taylor (Armand) delivers monologue after monologue that leaves Garbo little choice but to reposition her body as she can and stay within frame. He did his best, given the circumstances.

A muted strength in the form of Gaston (Rex O'Mally) exists, too. Their faithful friend, he can be counted upon to help as he can, and so he does. This sort of role must have become less popular with the passing years, but in a burdensome drama such as Camille, every little bit of genuine help is greatly, if (more often than not) secretly, appreciated.

[1] The 1998 Video Movie Guide thus suggests that this maybe ain't so great a film.

[2] Bottle-feeding calves and galloping horseback through remote fields for me. Or reading anything by the great American transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau.

[3] Behold the power of nitwits to make a lover feel inadequate and feeble...what a crock.

The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada (2005)

Dir. Tommy Lee Jones
Writ. Guillermo Arriaga
w/ Tommy Lee Jones, Barry Pepper, Julio Cedillo, Melissa Leo, Dwight Yoakam, January Jones


Tommy Lee Jones's first go in the director’s seat smacks all at once of John Sayles's Lonestar, Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven, and Sam Peckinpah's Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. Like Sayles, Jones distills a classic Western theme and relocates it in a modern setting, reincarnating (and also starring as) the lone cowboy who (like Eastwood's William Munny) makes justice his bedfellow to right the negligent death of his friend, Melquiades. A frustrating border problem looms in the background of small-town Texas. Border patroller Mike Norton (Barry Pepper) exhibits an unexplained rage towards the illegal immigrants he gets paid to simply chase back into Mexico; and, later on, a peccadillo that results in Melquiades’s death. When the Texas Rangers, the local police, and the border patrollers won’t investigate, modern-day cowboy Pete Perkins takes it upon himself to see his personal brand of justice done and his friend’s body home.

More than one reviewer has suggested that Eastwood may have been the only other man who could have pulled this part off, but the film engenders doubts that he would have been the right hombre. Jones's tired visage greets the camera like cold bacon and eggs. The aging Texan plays Pete with an easy gravitas, loose in the saddle and patient to make good on a promise to an exile. The film never spells out why the Mexican could not go home, but rather delivers us into the hands of a man willing to wait for something good. The cowboy mystique revels in solitude, men of few words, and calculated actions. Their bond manifests in a series of quiet, lucid flashbacks that culminate when Melquiades asks his only friend to find his wife and family should he die while still in Texas.

“I don’t want to be buried under a billboard,” he tells Pete.

Pepper plays the emotionally distant border patroller just so, too disaffected to notice his bad marriage, and too out of control to stop beating would-be immigrants at his day job. The officials try to get Mike to stop brutalizing Mexicans, but show serious disinterest in Melquiades’s death. As the tight-lipped sheriff, Dwight Yoakam regurgitates incredible talent for the loathsome (think Slingblade) and faces off with Pete over what he dismisses as "just another wetback." Not willing to compromise as filmmaker or hero, Jones takes his character south of the border, hauling along Norton and one very rancid corpse.

Guillermo Arriaga's dialogue alternately tarnishes and shines. At once, he paints the scenery of the lonestar state with industry and a macabre claustrophobic sense pungent with wit. Norton's estranged wife, Lou-Ann, (Melissa Leo) describes her old home of Cincinatti to the curious waitress (January Jones) who notices her boredom. "Yeah, it's really pretty,” Lou-Ann says, childishly believable. “I love the malls."

A lot could be said of the Amores Perros and 21 Grams writer; he's come a long way, and so has Melquiades. In a raw moment between Pete and corpse, he gives up trying to brush his loosening hair, shakes his head, and says, "You look like hell, son." But it's not all squeaky one-liners and juxtapositions. Both Arriaga and Jones let the landscapes speak volumes. The town they seek, described as having so much beauty one could die for it, may only be a myth, but it takes shape and meaning of its own. In their search for Jiminez, no one can guide them…except for Melquiades maybe. And he isn’t talking.

Supporting the weight of such an allegory, cinematographer Chris Menges and music director Marco Beltrami delicately imbue the film with life. In the search for something as eternal yet fleeting as a wellspring, a tree, and a bit of rock, such delicacy should be admired. One part Greek tragedy to two parts discovery, Three Burials has won Jones Best Actor at Cannes, and Best Screenplay for Arriaga, both honors well deserved. But the greatest aspect of the film remains the wonderfully indie imperfections. The honesty has so much rust that it delights where others fail. Artless manipulation, rising musical scores, and cheap camera tricks can be found elsewhere. Character and setting provide really great movement, true, but had Pete Perkins's aim been that of a man intent upon fulfilling his friend's request simply because he deserves no less than a white man, Three Burials would likely be a different movie altogether.

Not a feel-good morality tale, and not about everything that’s wrong with the world, the story centers on the mystery of a life, which serves the film better than hidden motives. A promise made by one man to another while alone on the range one soft, summer day makes good and to great effect, waking Norton from his trite, unreal sense of life and providing a noteworthy emotional payoff. The film's catharsis rings as replete as that of its travelers, a sweet, forgotten sound. In a medium of formulaic plots, snoring sequels, and just plain bad re-runs, it’s refreshing, and unlikely to be seen again soon.