Saturday, December 12, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogues: Pale Rider, or More Jazz For Clint

The hills were racked with thunder and vexation, and came the death dealer, the one of higher justice.  He was hard, but equitable, and suffered not evil.  (That was Clint's starring role I'm talking about.)

It's important that Clint's fantasy character has the indisputable mark of a man, so he is part gunfighter, where from in other works he might be a policeman or a soldier, but here a part gunfighter and wearing the garb of a preacher.  This is the touch of male infallibility, that he is, as it were, a symbol.

I like Clint very much, and have since watching Two Mules For Sister Sarah as a child, though I really like Shirley Mclane much more than Clint, as the duplicitous redheaded temptress.  I have a raging boner when I watch a rerun of her cigarette-puffing portrayal of Irma La Duce.  BUT Michael Moriarity is an actor of whom his works I have enjoyed a lot.  Riveted to the screen like a suction-cup Garfield in someone's rear car window fifteen years ago.

Back to the reason for the season:  The scene of the rock in the stream and the giant is a dull new-Fordian meditation on fecundity, in the portrayal of the insurmountable and the urethra and testes, and the masculine violence of overcoming, the affirmation of one's own sexual potency in while refuting the sexuality of a passing nemesis, with the proto-Fordian cast of players looking on at the hero's works, but unlike a John Ford work, they do not commentate.  The commentary of the bit players can be done without, unless we are talking of a Michael Bay work, who is the truest modern example of an amoral heart-bent Fordian.

It is the rockhard traditionalism of Eastwood that punts the villian in his testes and then destroys the boulder in the stream, but it is yet a hopeful and silly manchild version of Clint that is hit on in turn by all the women in the valley, even the dark-skinned comely teen girl, and the loyal and good woman of the Earth wife.  Escapist fantasy, I say, to be not a prodigy, but a male archetype, or a blending of such, beyond the reproach of those he wishes to impress with his works, and in the course of the particular story, there is even the intimation that he is beyond life, a very emissary of divine justice.

Your dreams Eastwood.  My saturday afternoon.

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