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The growing
literature on Unforgiven (US 1992) suggests that the
film attempts to examine several intersecting
concerns.[1]
These include generic issues pertaining to the western, such
as heroism, justice, violence, and myth-making, as well as
screen violence generally, the inequity of gender relations,
and contemporary socio-political parallels. However, this
criticism tends to identify the most siginficant aspect of
the film as "Clint Eastwood", a figure that is the nexus of
many critical debates. This figure, "Clint Eastwood", then
becomes the criterion of whether or not the film succeeds as
a critique of the topics it raises. As Christopher Frayling
states succinctly, Unforgiven is a film "where the
story of the lead actor's career and the film story become
inseparable".[2]
For many critics the film marked this figure's redemption as
a director and/or cultural identity. Other writers, though,
have derided Unforgiven for not breaking with the
patterns of "Clint Eastwood's" previous work. Others still
have pointed to the film's complexity and that of William
Munny, Eastwood's character, who is somehow also "Clint
Eastwood". Despite the critical importance of this
"Eastwood" figure, there has been a tendency in
Unforgiven criticism to conflate the actor/star, the
character and the director into a single "Clint Eastwood".
There has been little analysis of how "he" is represented
stylistically in the film, that is, how this is achieved
through direction. Thus, it is precisely Eastwood the
director who is repressed in these discussions. It is my
contention that Eastwood's direction constructs William
Munny and the Eastwood persona in ambiguous and complex
ways. If this is the case, why do critics eschew his
direction in favour of "forgiving" or "damning" the less
sophisticated "Clint Eastwood" they perceive in the film?
Hypothesis: critics have an affective investment in
"Eastwood" that underpins their interpretations. [1]
My thanks to Bill Routt for his generous assistance in the
preparation of this article. [2]
Christopher Frayling, "Unforgiven,"Sight and
sound vol. 25, no. 4 (1992) : 58. In order to
provide a basis for comparing Unforgiven criticism
with the film, let us begin by considering the depiction of
William Munny. Munny seems to be constructed in binary
terms. Early in the film he appears to be a family man and
farmer: if he returns to crime, it is because of financial
desperation. William Beard argues that the film suggests his
dead wife, Claudia, forgave Munny, in an unseen period that
predates the film's opening. This enabled Munny to escape
from "a maelstrom of nihilistic compulsive violence and
drunken self-obliteration".[3]
It is the (humiliating) death of Munny's old partner, Ned
Logan, late in the film that provokes his return to
violence. Beard claims, [3]
William Beard, "Unforgiven and the uncertainties of
the heroic," Canadian journal of film studies, vol.
3, no. 2 (1994) : 50. Further references appear in the
text. However, the film
indicates that Munny's transformation is far more gradual.
In this regard, Julia Kristeva's discussion of forgiveness
in Fydor Dostoyevsky's work is useful.[4]
Kristeva argues that the act of forgiveness enables the
criminal's "confession" to be heard without judgement.
Although the past is not forgotten, it is displaced. This
creates an opportunity for psychological renewal (of the
kind Munny apparently experienced after marrying Claudia).
Yet it is important to note that, despite the redemptive
act, the past is always present somewhere. While
Kristeva does not consider it explicitly, it seems that the
criminal will commit further crimes if he loses or rejects
forgiveness. [4]
See Julia Kristeva, Black sun: depression and
melancholia, trans. Leon S. Roudiez, (New York, Columbia
University Press, 1989) pp. 173-217. Further references
appear in the text. When the
Schofield Kid arrives at the Munny farm to invite Munny to
join him in collecting the bounty offered by the wronged
prositutes of Big Whiskey, the narrative and
mise-en-scène look simple and clear. Munny is
an old man flailing around in the dirt trying to save his
hogs from disease. While he listens to the Kid's story, he
rejects the younger man's plan. After the Kid leaves Munny
returns to his hogs. We can accept his rehabilitation. This
sequence, though, is more ambiguous than it appears. For
example, Munny is barely existing in self-imposed exile. He
tells the Kid, "I thought maybe you were someone come to
kill me for something I'd done in the old days". In this
respect, the scenes of Will chasing his hogs can be read
metaphorically as implying that he is (still) contaminated
by his past. He tells his children before he leaves for Big
Whiskey that the hogs are "getting even for the cruelty that
I inflicted" upon animals "before I met your dear departed
Ma". His failure to separate the hogs and the increasing
number of sick animals suggests that he is unable to contain
an infection. In both scenes each side of his face is
covered in dark mud, as if the filth is adhering to
him. When the men go
inside their conversation is divided into two segments, the
first dealing with Munny's reputation, the second with
Claudia. Throughout their discussion at least one side of
the Kid's face is well lit (notionally by sunlight via an
aperture). However, Munny's face remains noticeably in
shadow most of the time, implying that the boundary between
the "forgiven" and "damned" Munny is uncertain. During the
first phase the Kid explains the purpose of his journey. As
he talks, Munny moves around the shack cautiously as he
assesses his seated visitor. The Kid relates how his uncle
Pete Sathau characterised Munny as "the meanest goddamn
sonofabitch alive". The shot cuts to Will who moves
backwards slightly, away from the light. The reputation of
gunfighters is central to Unforgiven. Here Will
pauses, as if considering this "recommendation" and its
implications, before replying softly, "Pete said that, huh"?
The Kid continues. When he mentions the reward there is a
MCU of Will with one eyebrow raised as he looks back over
his shoulder at the Kid - perhaps he is tempted. At this
point Munny's children appear in the doorway and the
conversation shifts. As if reminded of Claudia, Munny refers
to her for the first time, talking about her profound
influence on him. But he also tells the Kid that, "She's
passed on". He turns, looks in the direction of her grave
and says, "Been gone near three years now". This curtails
the discussion, but also points to Munny's psychological
separation from her "forgiveness" at this early
stage. The two night
scenes on the trail continue to articulate Munny's "divided"
character. On the first night Munny expresses remorse for
his crimes to Logan, insisting that his redemption is not in
jeopardy. The only (apparent) light source is the camp fire.
The men are surrounded by darkness. In the establishing LS
we can make out their saddles just behind them. As the scene
proceeds it becomes more intimate gradually via a series of
cuts. By the time Munny refers to Eagle (Hendershot), a
former associate who hated him, he is shot in MCU from just
below his chin at about 45 degrees. Here Munny's face is
bathed in the fire's golden glow, but apart from his upper
body we can see little else, his clothes blending into the
night. While the men talk Logan twice adopts the mantra that
Munny "ain't like that no more", as if his partner needs
moral support. Munny asserts, "That's right, I'm just a
fella now. I ain't no different from anyone else, no more".
However, while Logan settles into his bed, Munny remains
seated in a rigid pose, using a hand to keep his overcoat
closed to keep warm. We have the impression he is trying to
protect himself psychologically against the physical
darkness enveloping him. Although the way his face is lit is
reminiscent of a halo, his forgiveness has again been
questioned figuratively. This impression
is reinforced the next evening after the Kid has joined
them. Munny's determination to ward off the elements again
implies an internal struggle. When the Kid questions the
older men about past deeds, Munny participates reluctantly.
While Logan and the Kid move around or sit up, Munny remains
stationary beneath his blanket for the entire scene, with
his just his head visible. Although the scene's lighting is
brighter than that of the previous night, Munny's face is
harder to see because of the flickering fire and his
distance from the camera. Accordingly, he blurs into his
surroundings. It seems that the closer he moves towards Big
Whiskey, the harder it is to distinguish his "forgiven" and
"damned" aspects. This difficulty
is evident when Munny reaches the town. While the Kid meets
with the prostitutes, Munny and Logan wait in the saloon.
Munny has a "fever" and experiences hallucinations. His
ailment is partly psychological: the threatening "darkness"
now begins to overwhelm him. This is emphasised by the
mise en scene. Munny adopts a similar posture to that
of the first night, but pulls his overcoat even tighter
around himself as he hunches over. Although trying to stay
warm, he also seems to be hiding, as if his clothing is a
protective shell or armour. His eyes are obscured by the
shadow cast by his hat brim (in this scene he is often shot
from above or level with his face; when shot from below the
chin the camera is positioned slightly higher than in the
earlier night scene with Logan). Whereas his face had been
visible during the two previous night scenes, here it all
but disappears: his "halo" has been replaced by shadow. The
sharp contrast between light and darkness provided by the
fire on the first night does not exist in the saloon. Lit by
oil lamps, the room has a smoky atmosphere. The colours of
its walls and fixtures resemble those of the customers'
clothing in several instances (brown is predominant). Thus,
especially in the reaction shots of the onlookers,
characters tend to blend in with their surroundings. This
depiction of Munny and the saloon suggests figuratively that
it is increasingly harder to separate good from bad,
aggressor from victim. If Big Whiskey represents the
apotheosis of Munny's temptation, then his tenuous grasp on
forgiveness is loosened further as he merges into his
environment. Munny
appears to resist temptation in Greely's. He refuses
Logan's offer of whisky, declines to have sex with a
prostitute, and does not fight back immediately when
attacked by the sheriff, Little Bill Daggett. Once again,
though, the mise en scène implies that Munny
belongs to that class of men Daggett loathes: "assassins and
men of low character". When Logan asks Munny if he wants to
visit the prositutes there are two shots of the Munny in
right profile from eye level. In the first Munny's face
remains in shadow. In the second he turns slightly up and
back towards Logan with his hat slouched so that only one
eye is visible. He turns away, effectively giving his
answer. However, his silence and awkward movements perhaps
gesture to his longing. This is echoed when Daggett taunts
him. The sheriff stands over him and says, "What if I was to
say you were a no-good, son-of-a-bitch and a liar"? There
are three left profile shots of Munny staring out and up
from beneath his hat at Daggett. Although he does not yield
to provocation, the steeliness of his glare indicates that
he wants to respond violently. Arguably, these profile shots
of Munny emphasise his conflicted personality. Notably,
these shots prefigure several of him during the final
shootout as he confronts, and then deliberately murders, the
brothel owner, Skinny Dubois, and the sheriff. The corollary of
this occurs as Logan tries to treat Munny later that night.
Although there is a fire just off-screen, the major
(nominal) light source is a candle the Kid holds as Ned
stitches Munny's wounds. Although Munny does not wear a hat,
the golden "halo" perceptible on the first night is here
diffused into darker brown tones (similar to those in the
shots of him crawling out of Greely's), with shadows
flickering across his face. The following night his face is
also lit in brown tones when his hallucinations return (the
scene also "lit" by an off-screen fire). This change in
lighting patterns implies that Munny blends into, or is
consumed by, the looming darkness. When Munny
recovers he seems to have experienced an epiphany. He gently
declines Delilah's offer of sex, citing his fidelity to
Claudia. Although he kills Davey Bunting in the next scene,
he acts compassionately, allowing the dying man's companions
to take him water. Yet again, though, Eastwood's direction
suggests Munny's latent criminality. Note the incongruity of
the heavy snow as Munny and Delilah talk (it is summer).
Surely we must recall Pete Sathau's comment that Munny
was"as cold as the snow and don't have no weak nerve nor
fear". Furthermore, Munny's generosity towards Davey is the
act of an experienced killer with the time to wait for a man
to die. Unlike Logan, he displays no remorse. Instead, there
are reaction shots of Munny just staring at the dirt as
Davey screams in agony. If
Unforgiven represents Munny's recidivism ambiguously,
then the final shootout complicates the apparent
resurrection of the Eastwood persona. Although by no means
ubiquitous in Eastwood's work, the Eastwood persona can be
found in varying degrees in his films with Sergio Leone,
most of Eastwood's American westerns, the Dirty Harry films
and several other action films in which he has appeared.
Historically, this figure originated in Leone's films. Don
Siegel contributed to its creation, but Clint Eastwood,
first as an actor and more importantly as a director, has
also been a signficant factor. As a character this figure is
a textbook example of what film and literary criticism calls
the "anti-hero". He has little or no past, and rarely has an
emotional connection to other characters, hence the aptitude
of the sobriquet "Man With No Name". He is often violent,
anti-authoritarian, ruthless, selfish, and sometimes amoral.
He creates havoc which he exploits, and wreaks revenge where
it suits him. His appearance is often rugged and scruffy.
His demeanour is usually taciturn, with occasional touches
of sarcasm. He has an uncanny ability to evade detection. He
is so proficient at violence that he seems invincible,
almost superhuman. Indeed, in High plains drifter (US
1973) and Pale rider (US 1986) this character is a
ghost or spectral figure. Performance,
costume and framing are integral to the Eastwood persona's
construction. Eastwood's acting is often minimalist, his
small facial gestures used to convey an emotion like
contempt or imminent action. His voice tends to be thin and
raspy, his delivery frequently emphasising the cruelty of
his character's humour. In the Leone films the character
often wears a poncho and in Eastwood's American westerns, a
long coat. The effect in both cases is to camouflage the
character's body, giving him an iconic appearance,
particularly when framed in LS or ELS while riding. The
western character often smokes a cigarillo, which is used
occasionally to indicate his presence when he is out of
sight. The Eastwood persona is filmed in distinct patterns.
Paul Smith contends that as a director Eastwood borrows a
number of stylistic conventions from Don Siegel which add up
to "a little semiotics of the heroized male
body".[5]
These consist of: [5]
Paul Smith, Clint Eastwood: a cultural production,
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 158.
Further references appear in the text. Returning to
Unforgiven, the figure who triumphs in the shootout
in Greely's resembles the typically sardonic, ruthless,
almost supernatural Eastwood hero. Munny is represented
according to the persona's conventions. Dennis Bingham
claims that as Munny enters Big Whiskey "old Eastwood motifs
appear - the slow ride into town, [and] the
subjective track to the saloon".[6]
Munny's presence in Greely's is announced to the viewer by
the barrel of his shotgun in the frame. The crowd is alerted
by a loud click. Only after the posse turns towards the door
is there a shot of Munny. Bingham argues that this marks
"the surprise emergence of the stranger figure - or his
shotgun - from out of an 'objective' camera position (a
favorite device of Leone's, which he had borrowed from
Kurosawa)" (240). Munny's demands information with
Eastwood's usual aggression. "Who's the fella owns this
shithole? You, fat man, speak up". Skinny Dubois' murder is
as malicious as any committed by an Eastwood character. When
Munny aims the gun at Skinny there are two shots of the pimp
that are almost strict POV shots. This aligns the audience
with Munny, encouraging us to anticipate Skinny's death.
After Daggett complains of his cowardice, Munny replies with
an example of Eastwood gallows humour ("Well, he should've
armed himself if he's gonna decorate his saloon with my
friend"). From the time he points the shotgun at the crowd
until he subsequently fires at the sheriff there are almost
twenty shots of him from under-the-chin. As Munny admits to
his past ("I've killed everything that walks or crawls . . .
and I'm here to kill you Little Bill") he displays the
menace we expect of an Eastwood hero. [6]
Dennis Bingham, Acting male: masculinities in the films
of James Stewart, Jack Nicholson and Clint Eastwood,
(New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press), 240. Further
references appear in the text. The ensuing gun
battle after Munny's shotgun misfires also seems to confirm
the similarities to the Eastwood persona. Whereas earlier he
had been physically frail and a poor shot, he suddenly
recovers his aim with a pistol and his nerve as he shoots
"five men single-handed". Douglas McReynolds asserts that
Munny "cleans out the saloon, his blazing six-gun as
magically inexhaustible as Ken Maynard's or Hoot Gibson's
ever was, and fully as large as anything Dirty Harry ever
owned".[7]
While Munny converses with the dime-novelist Beauchamp the
under-the-chin shots resume. These continue as he stands
over Daggett during their final exchange. The close-ups of
Munny taking aim with Logan's rifle are at 45Ú with
Eastwood looking right to left, consistent with Smith's
typology. The murders of Fatty, Little Bill and Clyde are
merciless. Munny's final instructions to the town are barked
in the manner of an Eastwood hero, and the low-angle of him
on horseback emphasise his domination of the scene. The
townspeople are so cowered they refuse to shoot at him -
William Munny leaves Big Whiskey unharmed and
invincible. [7]
Douglas McReynolds, "Alive and well: western myth in
movies," Literature/film quarterly, vol. 26, no. 1
(1998) : 50. Further references appear in the
text. Can we be certain
that Munny has been fully transformed into an Eastwood hero?
Richard Combs argues that in the film the Eastwood "persona
is for the first time turned into a fully developed
character".[8]
Munny has a complex personal history. Although Claudia dies
before the film begins, her love had changed him from being
a murderous outlaw into a peaceful man. In the film he is
polite, diplomatic and compassionate. While he returns to
crime, he struggles to remain faithful to her memory and
tenets. His guilt and remorse seem genuine. Carl Plantinga
contends, "Far from an invincible ghost or specter, Munny is
clearly human and obviously flawed. His biographical
history, which haunts him in his dreams, causes him pain and
guilt".[9] [8]
Richard Combs, "Shadowing the hero," Sight and sound,
vol. 2, no. 6 (1992) : 15. Further references appear in the
text. [9]
Carl Plantinga, "Spectacles of death: Clint Eastwood and
violence in Unforgiven," Cinema journal, vol.
37, no. 2 (1998) : 71. Further references appear in the
text. William Munny's
appearance and physical attributes also distinguish him from
other Eastwood heroes. Munny does not smoke, and before
leaving for Big Whiskey he shaves. While he wears a long
coat for some of the film, he does so with less
self-conscious flair than usual, often pulling it closed to
protect himself from the elements. Similarly, Munny is more
physically vulnerable than the Eastwood persona. He is
sickly, a poor shot, and has trouble riding his horse.
Eastwood's appearance contributes to this impression. In
other films his youthful appearance and fitness allowed him
to play action heroes convincingly. However, he looks old in
Unforgiven, his hair grey and thinning, particularly
while tending to his pigs. In terms of his performance,
Combs claims, The shootout
itself differs from those of other Eastwood films. Bingham
claims that "the characters in this scene pose no threat
visually. Gone are the sweaty, wide-screen close-ups of
smirking thugs" (240). Nor are the deputies sacrificial
ciphers, as is often the case in Eastwood pictures, but
delineated characters in their own right. Len Engel argues,
"In previous Eastwood westerns, and, generally, in most
westerns, climaxes are characterized by specific, stylized
imagery and the gradual building of dramatic
tension".[10]
This is not the case in Unforgiven. The gun battle
happens quickly. Although Daggett urges Munny to pause
before firing at Skinny, he does not. There is only a brief
interlude as Munny confesses to his past before the firing
commences. It is over in under a minute of screen time.
There is also a great deal of visual confusion for the
viewer, caused by a combination of mise en
scène and editing. As with the initial
confrontation in Greely's, the scene's low-intensity
lighting makes it hard to see exactly what is transpiring.
This is exacerbated by the similar colours - browns and
oranges - of the setting and characters' clothing which
causes the actors to blend into their surroundings. Space is
fragmented through editing in this scene. Just prior to
Skinny's murder there is a cut across the 180 degree axis of
action. Before and during the shootout there are several
cuts around the room between Munny, Daggett and the deputies
(who are spread around the saloon). Thus, instead of a
ritual cathartic purge of the Eastwood persona's opponents,
the chaos perhaps functions to induce a sense of panic, as
well as demonstrating the sheriff's thesis on the importance
of a gunfighter remaining calm when threatened. [10]
Len Engel, "Rewriting western myths in Clint Eastwood's new
'old western'," Western american literature, vol. 29
(1994) : 264. Munny's prior
suffering suggests that he may be capable of feeling guilt
and remorse for these new crimes. It is interesting,
therefore, that McReynolds' observation about the
"inexhaustibility" of Munny's pistol is wrong - he fires
precisely six shots. This is a significant detail because it
alludes to the cyclical relationship between his crimes and
forgiveness. Munny's explanation to Beauchamp for his
uncanny skill is luck: "I was lucky in the order. But I've
always been lucky when it comes to killing folks". Armando
Prats contends, [11]
Armando J. Prats, "Back from the sunset: The western, the
Eastwood hero, and Unforgiven," Journal of film
and video, vol. 47, nos. 1-3 (1995) : 122. The final shot of
the film also indicates that Munny's exile from grace may
not be permanent. In a repetition of the opening shot a
scroll is overlaid against an ELS of the Munny farm at
sunset. A figure walks to Claudia's grave as "Claudia's
theme" plays on the soundtrack. The scroll informs us that
Claudia's mother visited her grave years later. Munny has
moved back into legend, leaving his mother-in-law with no
explanation as to why her daughter married such a despicable
man. The scroll informs us that Munny left the farm "with
the children". In this shot we also see clothes blowing in
the wind briefly before they disappear via a dissolve (just
before the first end credit, "Directed and Produced by Clint
Eastwood"). This return to family life suggests that
although Munny may have abandoned loving forgiveness,
forgiveness has not necessarily forsaken him. While he
displayed no remorse for his rampage in Greely's, he could
be haunted by his crimes in the future as he had been
previously. Munny's humanity is "his margin of hope, his
chance for survival and redemption: that he knows what he's
done, and that only an awful man could do
it".[12]
It is also what arguably distinguishes Munny from the
supernatural Eastwood hero. [12]
Henry Sheehan, "Scraps of hope: Clint Eastwood and the
western," Film comment, vol. 28, no. 5 (1992) : 27.
Further references appear in the text. If the film
represents Eastwood's character and persona as ambivalent,
how does Unforgiven criticism construct "Clint
Eastwood"? As I have indicated, Eastwood's critical
"rehabilitation" or (continued) "damnation" has been
preferred to formal analysis in the literature. This does
not imply that such responses are textual mis-readings.
Rather, in tracing the critical reactions to
Unforgiven what concerns me is the implications for
film criticism of this apparent divergence from the
text. In terms of
Eastwood's critical reputation, Paul Smith argues that
Eastwood's gradual transformation from a (mere) populist
filmmaker into an "auteur-father" began around 1985.
Eastwood was "seen to have to put in enough hard work and to
have paid his dues" (245). For Smith, an auteur-father acts
as the guardian of genres such as the western, as well as
Hollywood craft traditions and the classical realist text
(245-246). Thus: The reviews of
Unforgiven "offer the sense that the movie goes
beyond the ordinary western, that its complexity and
profundity endow it with the status of art" (264).
[13]
The critical assessment is that Eastwood has "surpassed his
mentors by following a new direction" (264). Thus, his
"status is enhanced even more on the grounds that he himself
has gone further by adding an original contribution to
American cinema" (264). [13]
It should be noted that Smith does not discuss
Unforgiven or its reception in great detail because
the film was released as he was completing his
book. In relation to
Unforgiven, the critical redemption of Clint Eastwood
can be discerned in various ways. Some of the praise given
to Eastwood and Unforgiven supports Smith's argument
directly. For example, Geoff Andrew insists: "It's quite
simply the best western since The outlaw Josey Wales
(US 1976), and a great film by any
standards".[14]
He adds, [14]
Geoff Andrew, "A history of western philosophy,"
Time out 19-25 August (1992) : 28. Further references
appear in the text. Harvey Greenberg
likens Unforgiven to the work of Thomas Mann,
Shakespeare, Freud, Kubrick and Kurosawa.[15]
He claims, [15]
Harvey Greenberg, "Unforgiven," Film
quarterly, vol. 46, no. 3 (1993) : 52, 56. Further
references appear in the text. Richard Jameson
says Unforgiven is the "first great Western since Sam
Peckinpah's Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (US
1973)".[16]
He asserts that the final shot of Big Whiskey after Munny
has left town contains [16]
Richard Jameson, "'Deserve's got nothin' to do with it,"
Film comment, vol. 28, no.5 : 12. Bingham claims,
"Since the much-honored Unforgiven removed the patina
of disrepute, it is clear that 'Clint Eastwood' will not
'mean' the same again" (243). In this respect, the critical
redemption of Eastwood can also be delineated in the generic
positioning of Eastwood and the film. For example, Plantinga
notes, "When Unforgiven was first released, many
critics lionized Eastwood for his directorial effort, seeing
the film as penance and restitution for his earlier films"
(65). Greenberg contends that in the film Eastwood
accomplishes "the 'taking back' of every sagebrush
shibboleth" of the western (52). Richard Corliss calls it "a
revisionist Western", adding, "Unforgiven questions
the rules of a macho genre, summing up and maybe atoning for
the flinty violence that made Eastwood
famous".[17]
John Tibbetts argues that Clint Eastwood, Gene Hackman and
Richard Harris "are reviewing their past sins" in the
film.[18]
And Geoff Andrew writes, "One can't help wondering if
Unforgiven . . . is something of a personal
testimony, a radical reassessment of his own career and
quasi-mythic persona" (30). [19] Unforgiven
has also been regarded as a classical western. Frayling
asserts that it is not a postmodern film. Rather, its
references to other films "seem to be there to anchor
Eastwood's odyssey within a hallowed tradition, rather than
to show off about the hollowness of that tradition" (58).
Tibbetts states, [17]
Richard Corliss, "The last roundup," Time Australia,
17 August (1992) : 62. [18]
John Tibbetts, "Clint Eastwood and the machinery of
violence," Literature/film quarterly, vol. 21, no. 1
(1993) : 13. Further references appear in the
text. [19]
In interviews Eastwood himself rejected this position. For
example: "'There's nothing funny about the violence in
Unforgiven. Now, I'm certainly not doing penance for
any of the mayhem I've presented on screen over the years. .
. .But at the same token, I think it's a time in my life and
a time in history that maybe violence should not be such a
humorous thing. Or that that it should be portrayed without
its consequences. . . .In Unforgiven I wanted to show
consequences to the violence. Maybe there's
consequences to both the perpetrator as well as the victim'"
(qtd in Tibbetts 16). In terms of
Eastwood's contribution, Geoff Andrew claims, "Clinton
Eastwood Jr is crucial to the genre's survival in its purest
form" (28). Lem Dobbs also celebrates Eastwood's commitment
to (apparently declining) Hollywood standards because he is
"a director who doesn't merely photograph scenes but evokes
them through such old-hat devices as camera placement,
composition, and movement within the
frame".[20] [20]
Lem Dobbs, "Homage to Peckinpah," Sight and sound,
vol. 2, no. 6 (1992) : 16. There is a
further classification. According to Peter Babiak,
"Unforgiven represents the emergence of a new
sub-genre in American Western mythology . . . the
post-Revisionist Western".[21]
Pat Dowell writes: [21]
Peter E.S. Babiak, "Rewriting revisionism: Clint Eastwood's
Unforgiven," Cineaction, no. 46 (1998) :
57. [22]
Pat Dowell, "Unforgiven," Cineaste, vol. 19,
no. 1-2 (1992) : 73. Philip Deloria
comments: "Far from marking the end of the western,
Unforgiven may signal another transformation of the
genre".[23]
He asserts that since the film "comments simultaneously on
itself, the genre, contemporary society, and the frontier
myth", it can be accepted as the "first significant
refiguring of the genre in a postmodern context" (1198).
Eastwood is perceived to have played a pivotal role in this
process. In Henry Sheehan's opinion, [23]
Philip Deloria, "Film reviews: America," American
historical review, no. 100 (1995) : 1198. Further
references appear in the text. One way of
reading these various assessments of Eastwood and the film
is as a form of critical forgiveness that has an
interpretive dimension. Kristeva argues that "Forgiveness
is aesthetic" (206). She asserts: "To say that the work
of art is a forgiving already implies leaving psychological
forgiveness (but without ignoring it) for a singular act -
that of naming and composing" (214). The underlying "affect"
in the act of forgiveness is thus translated into the
"effect" of discourses such as art or criticism. In
Unforgiven criticism those writers who claim the film
is Eastwood's attempt at cultural atonement treat it as the
culmination of his career which reconfigures its direction
and meaning. Eastwood has been considered a driving force in
ensuring the western's survival among those critics who
praise the film's classical generic virtues. Although his
films often questioned generic conventions, critics have
"forgiven" him for these departures from the norm. Instead,
they read his career in terms of continuing a tradition,
comparing him to John Ford and Sam Peckinpah. It can be
argued that in describing Unforgiven in terms such as
a meditation on "Clintessence",[24]
a "radical reassessment of his own career and quasi-mythic
persona", or a "harsh, brilliant culmination" of Eastwood's
westerns,[25]
criticism implicitly conserves his past even as a new way of
discussing "Eastwood" is being articulated. This arguably
parallels Munny's position when "forgiven" by Claudia: his
crimes were displaced, not abolished. Finally, those critics
who argue Unforgiven is a new type of postmodern or
post-revisionist western contend that Eastwood is
responsible for inaugurating this sub-genre and the cycle of
films in the 1990s that belong to it. Thus, they "forgive"
him because they regard him as a progenitor. [24]
Corliss, p. 62. [25]
Sheehan, p. 17. Of course, some
critics have disparaged the film and Eastwood. They maintain
that Unforgiven resembles other Eastwood films, and
is not a critique of screen violence. Paul Smith
argues, McReynolds
contends, In his opinion
when William Munny "walks into Skinny's saloon . . . he is
transformed into that avenging angel which both the myth and
the audience demand he become" (50). According to Hal
Hinson, [26]
Hal Hinson, "Unforgiven: A fistful of Eastwood,"
Washington post, 7 August (1992) : C 2. Mary Blundell and
Kirk Ormand insist that, "The conflation of actor and role
is a product of the actor/director's self-image which he has
promoted over many years".[27]
They claim Yet they also
acknowledge, "We, the audience, are complicit. We expect and
want Eastwood the actor to resume his old persona,
just as we want Munny to rise up and take revenge"
(563-564). [27]
Mary Whitlock Blundell and Kirk Ormand, "Western values, or
the people's Homer: Unforgiven as a reading of the
Illiad," Poetics today, vol. 18 (1997) : 562.
Further references appear in the text. Criticism that
condemns Eastwood or Unforgiven also generates
discursive effects from its affective impulses. Critics
disavow the ambivalence surrounding Munny and the Eastwood
persona by insisting on the coalescence of the two figures.
They then claim that Unforgiven has not deviated from
Eastwood's screen trajectory. Like critics who regard the
film more positively, Eastwood is thus linked metonymically
to his previous films. This ensues a measure of interpretive
stability because it establishes that Eastwood "makes sense"
- the (apparent) ambivalence of William Munny is rendered
more distinctively as a failed apology. In this regard, such
critics resemble the sheriff who damns Munny by linking him
indelibly to the terrible crimes of his past. What of those
writers, like me, who argue for the ambivalence of Munny,
Eastwood and the film? These commentators try to displace
their own affective investment on to "naive" or traditional
Eastwood viewers (or critics, in this instance). In so doing
they assume they have the power to scrutinise and judge the
naive audience. For example, Beard claims, Plantinga
writes: Note the
interesting slippage in Plantinga's remarks as he moves from
scrutinising the "naive" audience ("I sensed") to an
increasing identification with them ("our
desire"). Pat Dowell
asks: Surely in the dim
light of Greely's saloon it is impossible for any of us -
Beard and Plantinga; you and I - to tell. This gloom is not
the "bronze darkness" that marks Eastwood films such as
Pale rider. Here it is diffused: light and colour
bleed into each other, delineating and absorbing figures.
Are we condemned, then, to enjoy that most familiar of
postmodern situations: an array of ambiguous meanings, none
more accurate or truthful than any other? Perhaps not.
Kristeva argues that the abject is "the place where meaning
collapses".[28]
For her, the "criminal with a good conscience" is an
exemplary figure of abjection (4). Might the affective
investment of critics in "Clint Eastwood" offer a way of
detecting the figure of "Clint Eastwood" in the uncertain
textual darkness of Unforgiven ? Such a gesture - our
loving forgiveness or endless damnation - would enable the
film critic to avoid the problem of abjection or
undecibability by delimiting a figure that stabilises the
process of interpretation. But which "Clint Eastwood" is
un/forgiven? Actor, star, character or director? As for me, when I
first saw Unforgiven I rejected it as another violent
Eastwood vehicle. However, when watching The bridges of
Madison County (US 1995) two years later, I forgave
Clint Eastwood. I did not ignore the violence or masculine
aggression of the Eastwood persona, but put it aside as I
watched that bereft figure waiting in the rain for
Francesca. I saw the sadness in Dirty Harry Callaghan for
the first time. I noticed the masculine loneliness that
permeates Eastwood's work. I also saw the subtlety of his
directorial lighting style. I connected it to the use of
lighting in Unforgiven and realised its importance to
a reading of the film's ambivalence. I began to appreciate
the significance of affect to understanding, and commenced,
both literally and metaphorically, to turn my attention
towards "the light". Thus my affective investment became the
foundation of my interpretation, that is, this
interpretation. [28]
Julia Kristeva, Powers of horror: an essay in
abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez, (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1982), 2.
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Ned's
death is also Munny's loss of his "good" self, his loss
of Claudia's forgiveness and his own self-forgiveness.
When he walks into Greely's to kill Skinny and Little
Bill he is a creature who has lost salvation, a damned
soul, "unforgiven" (50).
under-the-chin
shots (where the heroized male figure, shot most often
from the waist up, seems to loom above the spectator's
eyeline); heavily backlit shots (in which either the
details of the hero's whole body or his face are more or
less obscured while the general shape is given in
silhouette); a preponderance of facial close-ups in which
the actor's gaze is directed from right to left at a
roughly forty-five degree angle, used to deliver
Eastwood's characteristic snarls and slight facial
movements; and traveling shots and pans that follow the
male body's movement in a relatively unsmooth motion and
usually avoid centering the body in the frame
(158).
For the
first time, Eastwood seems to lose his sense of
discomfort with himself on screen, to the extent that
Unforgiven is about William Munny in a way that High
plains drifter is not about the Stranger, nor Pale
rider is not about the Preacher (14).
Witnesses
ourselves to the mythic deed, we now know that Will
Munny's humanity is no longer measured only by
immitigable remorse. He lives with his singular luck,
which is also, in a cruel and all too familiar paradox,
the source of his guilt. [11]
It is no
accident . . . that the canonization of Eastwood
accompanies the process of 'restitution' . . . (where the
integrity of the tradition is upheld and safeguarded
against the threat of what we might call the postmodern
westerns) (246).
If
Bergman had ever directed a western, even though it
wouldn't have had the leavening humour and expert action
sequences, it must have ended up a little like
Unforgiven (29-30).
Its
deconstructive task is accomplished with such fierce
intelligence, mordant wit, and formal beauty as to place
it within the pantheon of the genre's finest achievements
(52).
something
more in the shot than any interpretation can account
for. The kind of something we associate with the most
magisterial moments of Murnau, Mizoguchi, Ford. And now,
Clint Eastwood (14).
It can
be argued that Unforgiven, far from being one more
nail in the coffin of the presumably deceased western
genre, in some ways marks the return to some of the more
elemental propositions of the classical form (12).
Unforgiven
reunites the traditional Western with the revisionist,
and morally questions them both, while reserving what
pleasure in violence it can muster. That makes it just
about the most self-reflexive Western Hollywood has ever
produced.[22]
First as
an actor, then as an actor-producer and actor-director,
Clint Eastwood has helped extend and reimagine the
Western with startling persistence and consistency
throughout his career (17).
Like
Dead pool (US 1988) before it, Unforgiven
suffers from being unable to criticize convincingly the
very violence that it itself is involved in and does not
shrink from re-representing (267).
Eastwood
persists throughout the movie in telling anyone who will
listen, including the audience, that he . . . isn't The
Man With No Name of the Sergio Leone films, and he isn't
Dirty Harry. . . .He ain't like that no more. But
he is, of course. He has to be (50).
Some
writers have called Unforgiven Eastwood's High
noon (US 1952), but it's really closer to being his
Billy Jack (US 1973). Though the thrust of the
movie is that killing is hard, that every bullet is a
wound to the killer's soul, the men that Munny guns down
seem to die pretty easily. . . .The point that Munny
lashes out only when provoked in extremis rings
hollow. We know why Munny finally draws his gun, and it's
not because he was forced to; it's because it's
inconceivable that Eastwood could play a western hero who
didn't. Munny is trapped by the past, but it's not his
own past - it's Eastwood's.[26]
When
Munny finally turns to violence he is replaying not just
his own "legendary" past but also the glory days of Clint
Eastwood's Western career. . . .In dramatizing Munny's
inevitable emergence from disguise, Eastwood is thus
showing us the essence of his own quasi-mythic character,
in the very moment that he seems to be renouncing it
(563-564).
But the
viewer who will enjoy the spectacle without second
thoughts, or without a twinge of horror in the knowledge
of everything that the film has shown as accompanying
this kind of action, is another naive Schofield Kid. . .
.Thus Unforgiven deconstructs the Eastwood persona
and the Eastwood fan (59).
I sensed
the deep satisfaction some audience members took when
Munny blows away his enemies . . . suggesting that for
many of us, the myth of redemptive violence has become so
entrenched, and the pleasures expected of Eastwood's
violent persona so firmly ingrained, that they conflict
with and perhaps override our desire for Munny's
redemption. In a sense, this "naive" response is more
alarming than it might be in a traditional Western
(80).
"I ain't
like that any more," Is it the biggest lie of all - or
would that be our delusion out here on the other side of
the screen? We are still convinced that we can tell the
good guys from the bad guys (73).
