How Unforgiven laid the classic movie western to… | Little White Lies

In Praise Of

How Unfor­giv­en laid the clas­sic movie west­ern to rest

09 Aug 2017

Words by David Pountain

An older man in a tan jacket stands in a doorway, with a woman and child visible behind him.
An older man in a tan jacket stands in a doorway, with a woman and child visible behind him.
Clint Eastwood’s grit­ty 1992 film dis­pelled many of the myths which he helped to popularise.

Ever since John Ford admit­ted to print­ing the leg­end in his 1962 mas­ter­piece, The Man Who Shot Lib­er­ty Valance, the tra­di­tion­al mythol­o­gy of the Old West has under­gone an exten­sive series of cin­e­mat­ic reap­praisals. From The Wild Bunch to Heaven’s Gate, grit­ty revi­sion­ist west­erns and so-called anti-west­erns’ have sought to coun­ter­act the roman­tic mis­rep­re­sen­ta­tions of vio­lence, his­to­ry and hero­ism per­pet­u­at­ed by the genre’s tal­ent­ed myth­mak­ers in an effort to bring audi­ences an undi­lut­ed dose of the real’ Wild West.

As the effort­less­ly cool pro­tag­o­nist of Ser­gio Leone’s sem­i­nal Dol­lars Tril­o­gy, Clint East­wood once helped ush­er in a new wave of west­erns that would dis­pel some of the false­hoods of the John Ford era while pop­u­lar­is­ing plen­ty of fresh ones. As the direc­tor and star of Unfor­giv­en, he pro­vid­ed the final word on half a century’s worth of horse-mount­ed do-good­ers and lone wolf gun­men. Nei­ther the most dis­parag­ing nor most real­is­tic of the var­i­ous cin­e­mat­ic respons­es to the genre’s creaky arche­types, it is nonethe­less grat­i­fy­ing­ly direct and psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly astute, strip­ping the gloss and pre­tence from the old tropes to reveal their raw, bloody ori­gins in both Amer­i­can his­to­ry and the mod­ern day moviegoer’s own escapist needs.

Like the Leone west­erns before it, Unfor­giv­en takes place in a dan­ger­ous world full of rugged sons of bitch­es, killing each oth­er for mon­ey, pride or in the name of vengeance. The key dif­fer­ence lies in our response to the bru­tal­i­ty on dis­play. When­ev­er Eastwood’s leg­endary Man with No Name dis­pensed jus­tice, the ques­tion­able nature of his acts was ren­dered moot by the fact that his adver­saries were always depict­ed as being more unam­bigu­ous­ly wicked than him. In Unfor­giv­en, when Eastwood’s retired ban­dit William Munny is hired to kill two men who cut up a prostitute’s face, their cap­i­tal pun­ish­ment is car­ried out in entire­ly joy­less fashion.

At the same time, David Webb Peo­ples’ script is sat­u­rat­ed with unnerv­ing reminders of Munny’s own hor­rif­ic, booze-fuelled track record. In a land where cocky gun­slingers fraud­u­lent­ly brag about past mur­ders (which either hap­pened not as report­ed or not at all), Munny is the only one to active­ly down­play his own body count out of a sense of remorse for what he’s done – and fear of what he might yet do.

Of course, even in the era of Leone any sug­ges­tion of moral right­eous­ness was mere win­dow dress­ing to the real rea­son for watch­ing these films. When styl­ish works like A Fist­ful of Dol­lars dragged the west­ern into mean­er ter­rain, the genre wasn’t de-roman­ti­cised so much as it was giv­en a fresh shot of testos­terone. This was a rougher wild west than the one John Wayne had inhab­it­ed, and so the heroes (and by exten­sion the view­er) had to be even tougher in order to thrive in it. Unfor­giv­en short cir­cuits this arrange­ment by turn­ing the implic­it into the explic­it – name­ly, that what this real­ly all comes down to is men and their dicks.

A serious-looking elderly woman in a black hooded cloak, her eyes closed.

When those men set the film’s grim events in motion by muti­lat­ing Delilah Fitzger­ald (Anna Levine), they do so as a furi­ous response to Fitzger­ald gig­gling at her client’s teen­sy lit­tle peck­er”. By con­trast, local sher­iff Lit­tle Bill Daggett (Gene Hack­man) tells the sto­ry of Two-Gun Cor­co­ran’, who earned his name from the pis­tol he held in his hand and the con­sid­er­ably larg­er weapon stored in his pants, recall­ing how boun­ty hunter Eng­lish Bob killed Cor­co­ran in a drunk­en act of jeal­ousy. Com­bine these obvi­ous phal­lic ref­er­ences with images of Munny strug­gling to mount his horse or his gun fail­ing to fire, and sud­den­ly his mis­sion to avenge the damsel in dis­tress doesn’t seem so dignified.

Sher­iff Daggett, mean­while, sees right through the per­for­mances of these arro­gant, self-styled killers and con­men – yet he too is a strik­ing sub­ver­sion of a time­worn arche­type. His ruth­less response to the crimes of Munny and his con­tem­po­raries posi­tions him as the pri­ma­ry antag­o­nist of the piece, but it’s not hard to imag­ine Daggett being the hero of this sto­ry in the same vein as John Wayne, Hen­ry Fon­da and Gary Coop­er. Like Mar­shal Will Kane in High Noon and Wyatt Earp in My Dar­ling Clemen­tine, Daggett is a stead­fast, arguably well-inten­tioned pro­po­nent of law and order.

Nonethe­less, his vin­dic­tive side emerges once trou­ble comes to his town, mir­ror­ing the vio­lent sense of jus­tice enforced by the very out­laws he beats to a pulp. While Daggett’s final line, I’ll see you in hell, William Munny,” may read like a typ­i­cal tough guy kiss-off, in the con­text of the grace­less, primeval omnisham­bles that results from one woman laugh­ing at a man’s dick, his words become a chill­ing admission.

In the 25 years since Unforgiven’s release, the west­ern has thrived as an art­house genre that con­tin­ues to probe the themes explored by Eastwood’s film and oth­er revi­sion­ist fore­bears – be it in issues of mas­culin­i­ty (Meek’s Cut­off) or myth­mak­ing (The Assas­si­na­tion of Jesse James by the Cow­ard Robert Ford) – with even the most crowd-pleas­ing and action-cen­tric of recent entries tend­ing to con­tain some ele­ment of cri­tique. It seems that any attempt to reju­ve­nate the screen out­laws and law­men of yore now comes with a twinge of guilt. As for East­wood him­self, Unfor­giv­en was per­haps the state­ment he need­ed to make in order to step away from the genre once and for all.

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