Welcome back for Day 7, the final day of our week of Clint Eastwood movie spotlights! To close things out, let’s talk about another modern success for Eastwood: Gran Torino (2008).
I feel a bit like a broken record this week, but I can’t help myself– these movies have all been great, and Gran Torino is yet another example of Eastwood bringing his A game.
Torino is the story of a prejudiced, angry Korean War veteran named Walt Kowalski (Eastwood), who despises the changes overtaking his small, Michigan neighborhood. His wife has just passed away, and it seems Walt can’t find solace in anything anymore– he can’t relate to his 2 grown sons, disdains the youthful priest who attempts to keep an eye on him, and is in a state of constant grumble regarding his new Hmong neighbors. Eventually, he forms something of a begrudging attachment to one of the young Hmong women, Sue, after she repeatedly demonstrates to him that A. She isn’t put off by his grumpy, curmudgeonly ways, and B. He might actually have more in common with traditional Hmong culture and his new neighbors than he does with his own spoiled family. It’s an eye-opening revelation for Walt, to say the least, and these factors (as well as his undeniable desire for companionship) cause him to go easy on Sue’s brother, Thao, when he tries to steal Walt’s prized 1972 Gran Torino. Racially-motivated gang violence is a looming problem in the neighborhood, and Thao is unfortunately on the cusp of being pulled in by forces outside of his control. Even Sue says of the neighborhood that “the girls go to college, and the boys go to jail.”
Not willing to let Thao waste his potential and throw his life away with the gangs, Walt begins to take the boy under his wing. He teaches him how to fix things, spends time mentoring him, and even helps Thao gain the confidence to ask out a girl he likes. It’s incredibly heartwarming to see Eastwood open himself up to caring about someone again (even if he remains a bit of a craggy old so-and-so). In fact, the journey from Closed-Off Grump to Secretly Tenderhearted Father Figure seems to be one of the defining features of post-2000 Clint Eastwood films…and I love it.
Ultimately, Walt finds himself with a difficult decision to make. The neighborhood gang violence reaches a fever pitch when it becomes obvious that Thao has chosen Walt’s friendship over theirs, and Sue is brutally raped and beaten. Walt promises Thao that Sue will be avenged; what form, however, will that justice take?
Gran Torino is a complex, richly layered movie, with A+ acting from everyone involved. At times funny, and at times horrifying, the writing and directing really make you feel for these characters. As the credits roll, you hear Clint Eastwood’s gravelly voice whispering the words to the original music behind him, and you know this is a film that will stay with you for a long, long time.
Thank you so much for being a part of this special Clint Eastwood Spotlight Series! We hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as we have enjoyed bringing it to you. Be sure to join us again later this month for another Actor/Actress spotlight–who will be next?!
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Welcome back for Day 6 of the Clint Eastwood Spotlight Series, where we’ll be talking about one of the actor/director’s biggest modern triumphs: Million Dollar Baby (2004).
First of all, this is an amazing movie. It’s the kind that elicits a physical reaction at the core of your being, like the chambers of your heart might legitimately be torn asunder. Think I’m being dramatic? Watch the movie. You’ll see.
As far as plot goes, Baby seems relatively straight-forward on the surface. Frankie Dunn (Eastwood) is an aging, emotionally hardened boxing trainer who is going through a painful estrangement from his daughter, Katie. We never find out why the two are estranged, but Frankie’s priest, Father Horvak, offers up this comment on the situation:
“Frankie, I’ve seen you at Mass almost every day for 23 years. The only person who comes to church that much is the kind who can’t forgive himself for something.”
This small insight, as well as the fact that all Eastwood’s letters to Katie return to him unopened, are the only semblances of light that are ever shed on Frankie’s separation from his daughter. Yet, oddly enough, it almost doesn’t matter that we don’t know what’s going on there, because Maggie Fitzgerald (Hilary Swank) soon walks into Frankie’s life, and eventually his heart.
Maggie hails from southwest “Missoura” (among the hills, according to Morgan Freeman’s character, situated “somewhere between nowhere and goodbye”), and somehow manages to be both exceptionally tough and extremely adorable. She is hopeful, hard-working, and all she wants out of life is to become a boxer–she says it’s the only thing she’s ever felt good doing. Her family is trashy and classless at best, and she knows that if she can’t chase down her boxing dream, she will be limited to scraping plates in the trailer park with them for the rest of her days. Frankie doesn’t want to train her as one of his fighters–he never trains women–but eventually, her work ethic and stubborn willpower successfully wear him down. He agrees to take her on.
As the film progresses, we see that both Frankie and Maggie are filling the lonely void in each other’s lives. Neither has realized just how much they needed the other, but as time and training go by, Maggie becomes like a daughter to him. She slowly but surely rises to the top of her boxing class under his tutelage, even though he is initially hesitant to arrange any big fights for her. Finally, after much wheedling and insistence from Maggie that she’s ready, Frankie sets up a match against a top-ranked UK opponent. Right before the fight, he gifts her with a beautiful, green silk robe, embroidered with the Gaelic words “Mo Cuishle” on the back. She asks him what it means, and he gruffly/shyly tells her he doesn’t know. Emboldened by the gesture, as well as some tough-love feedback from Frankie in the middle of the fight, Maggie goes on to win by K.O. that night. She becomes a scrappy, crowd favorite, grinning from ear to ear as chants of “Mo Cuishle! Mo Cuishle!” fill the arena.
Maggie soars higher and higher in the rankings, until she finally accepts a match with Billie “The Blue Bear” (a German ex-prostitute with a nasty reputation for dirty fighting) for the WBA women’s welterweight championship title. It starts to look like Maggie might actually win, but then things take an unexpected turn. If you haven’t seen the movie, I don’t want to go much further and risk spoilers…but suffice it to say that that sound you’re hearing is the sound of hearts across America cracking in two. Oh, and here is a picture of my face when Frankie finally tells Maggie what “Mo Cuishle” means:
Million Dollar Baby took home four Oscars that year: Best Picture, Best Director (Eastwood), Best Actress (Swank), and Best Supporting Actor (Freeman, whom I didn’t talk about much in this review, but he is excellent as Eddie “Scrap-Iron” Dupris). It’s easy to see why, because everyone who was a part of this film clearly poured their heart and soul into its production. Having a close relationship with my own dad, this story and the incredible father-daughter chemistry between Eastwood and Swank really speaks to me. I’m pretty sure I experienced every possible human emotion while watching Baby, and I can honestly say it’s one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.
Tomorrow, join me again for the final day of our Clint Eastwood Spotlight Series! I’ll be discussing Gran Torino (2008), so be sure to come on back as we wrap things up.
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Welcome back for Day 5 of our Spotlight Series on the films of Clint Eastwood! Today we’re going to be talking about a movie that is different than any we’ve discussed so far this week–heck, it’s different than most other films he made in the entirety of his decades-long career. Grab the tissues and get ready to experience a lot of feelings, because we’re diving into the 1995 romantic drama (adapted from the novel of the same name), The Bridges of Madison County.
Bridges is another film directed by Eastwood, co-starring everyone’s favorite feminine powerhouse, Meryl Streep. The pair have pretty incredible chemistry, and several scenes are downright steamy. A far cry from the “where’d my glasses go?” humor of a charmingly middle-aged Alec Baldwin/Diane Keaton movie, this gem pits two legit movie titans, no longer in the dewy bloom of youth, together against the world. Streep is 46, Eastwood is 65, but both are still incredibly sexy. I don’t fully know how to describe it, but there just…aren’t a lot of movies like this. Hollywood doesn’t tell a ton of nuanced love stories about people over the age of 35, and when those movies DO come along, it’s as if they can’t stop themselves from pointing out how out of touch the couple is with whatever youth culture is popular at the time. Either that, or it’s a Nicholas Sparks adaptation, and you know damn well someone’s going to die in a mudslide or be diagnosed with melanoma. Bridges, however, wastes no time on maudlin deathbed soliloquies, or cheap “come help me figure out my iPad!” jokes (or, you know, the 90s equivalent). What separates this movie from others that people will be tempted to lump it with, is just how serious the film is. There are brief snatches of joy and tender comedy interspersed throughout, but mostly, the word I’d use to describe it is aching. It’s a gorgeous story about two real people who fall into real love. It’s not a tawdry affair between two bored, unhappy souls; it’s two people meeting, expecting nothing, but sensing down in their bones that they’ve met the person they should have been with, had circumstances been different.
The story takes place predominantly on a farm in rural Iowa, where Francesca (Streep), an Italian war bride, lives with her husband and two young children. She is content with the simple life she leads, and while her marriage is not one of joyful camaraderie and earth-shaking passion, her husband is a kind, well-meaning man. Then, when he takes the kids away to the State Fair for a few days, Francesca happens upon photographer Robert Kincaid (Eastwood). Robert is in town on assignment from National Geographic, planning to shoot a series on some beautiful, historic bridges in the area. Without intending anything scandalous, the two get to know one another, and over the course of a few days they fall deeply in love. I know, I know. Four days isn’t enough time, blah blah blah. But there’s just something about these two characters, these two actors, that makes you believe it. They each know they’ve found a life’s companion in the other, but Francesca already has a family that she can’t justify leaving. Robert wants to run away together and seize happiness for themselves, but Francesca believes that she has to prioritize the life she already has–that it’s too late to start again.
I love this movie. The ONLY reason I deducted half a star in my rating is that there’s kind of a stupid framing device running throughout, which rears its head every time you think you’ve forgotten about it. Basically, at the beginning of the movie, Francesca has died and her two adult children are summoned to the Iowa farmhouse to hear the reading of the will, as well as her final wishes for her remains. They’ve lived their lives knowing nothing of their mother’s infidelity, so it’s quite a shock to them when they learn, not only of its existence, but that she wants to have her ashes scattered over one of the famed, covered bridges in Madison County. Two guesses why. All of the interactions we see between Francesca and Robert are taking place in flashback– they’re memories recorded in diaries by Francesca, and serve as a way of explaining her wishes for cremation to her two surviving children. Which brings me to the annoying part of this framing device: Francesca’s son, Michael. I mean, I get that his disbelief and outrage are the catalyst for the story (every time he learns a new piece of information, he’s all like “Whaaaaaaaat?! How could she feel this way/do this thing?!”, and the sister has to placate him with inane comments like “Calm down, let’s just hear a little bit more!”), but it gets extremely tiresome. I think certain parts of the device work–the items Robert leaves to Francesca in his own will, and the fact that they don’t die in each other’s arms, but instead pass on separately, of natural causes, many years apart– but mostly, the kids just make me want to punch them.
That aside, if you haven’t already, do yourself a favor and seek this movie out. Yes, it’s a romantic drama, and yes, you might need a few Kleenex to sustain you. But this is a beautiful, extremely well-crafted movie, and if the man in your life won’t watch it with you…WATCH IT WITH YOURSELF. As Richard Corliss from TIME Magazine puts it: “Madison County is Eastwood’s gift to women: to Francesca, to all the girls he’s loved before– and to Streep, who alchmizes literary mawkishness into intelligent movie passion.”
Tomorrow, join me again as I delve into the film that won Eastwood his second Oscar for Best Director: Million Dollar Baby (2004). This one’s a doozy, so don’t miss it!
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Welcome back for Day 4 of our Clint Eastwood Spotlight Series! Today I have the privilege of discussing with you (what I consider to be) the greatest modern western made to date: Unforgiven (1992).
According to Eastwood at the time, Unforgiven would be the last western he made, because he did not want to risk repeating himself or imitating someone else’s work. Boy, did he go out of the genre in style.
Not only did the film win Best Picture that year, but it also earned Eastwood his first win for Best Director. He wasn’t exactly working with untested unknowns–when a cast includes Morgan Freeman, Gene Hackman, and Richard Harris as supporting characters, you know the movie cannot possibly be subpar– but you can still feel Eastwood’s distinctive hand guiding the film. It has all his signature touches: the underdog vs. the many, the visceral pull of the scenery, the minimalistic (yet lovely) musical score, the rawness of the emotion his characters feel. Eastwood’s films stay with you long after the credits have rolled, and Unforgiven is a perfect example.
It’s a movie about reputation in all its forms, and the questions posed remind me of that internet meme that was in circulation for a while: What My Mom Thinks I do, What My Friends Think I do, What Society Thinks I Do, What I Actually Do, etc. The film is unapologetic with regard to what these characters have already done, but it also explores the idea of whether or not people can change. When you’ve already done a thing hundreds of times, can you really give it up? If you do give it up, will people let you forget about it? What toll has it already taken on you, and when you look in the mirror are you ever fully free of what society thinks?
Eastwood’s character, the grizzled and timeworn William Munny, grapples with the weight of his own legend throughout the entirety of the film. He’s haunted by the evil deeds of his youth, and the fact that all anyone remembers or wants to talk about is his reputation for murder and meanness. He wants desperately for people to see him, not as he was, but how he currently is. In classic Western fashion, he’s been remade by the love of a good woman– he’s abandoned the whiskey, the killing, the ruthlessness. Now, he’s a solemn widower, looking after his two children and a pig farm in the wake of his wife’s death from smallpox. He lives a simple life, and he’s grateful for the change, but when the much-younger Schofield Kid rides into town one day, promising him a hefty reward for partnership in one final killing, Munny can’t help but accept. His farm is limping along at best, and he needs the money to provide for his children’s future. Not to mention, the lethal justice at hand will be in retribution for two men viciously slashing a woman’s face to shreds after she giggled at the size of one’s penis. So…yeah. It’s probably not going to keep him up at night.
Another interesting angle to the storyline (and further evidence to support Eastwood’s love of the underdog) is that the woman whose face was slashed, as well as the collective group of women offering the reward, are prostitutes. The “madam” of the operation, Strawberry Alice (Frances Fisher), is so enraged by the sheriff’s tepid, initial punishment of the offenders, that she pools the girls’ money and offers up a $1,000 reward to anyone who will kill the two cowboys responsible. Usually, and this is especially the case in Westerns, ladies of the evening aren’t necessarily part of the protagonist set. They play minor roles, or they tempt the wholesome cowboys to ruin. Yet, strangely, the gaggle of prostitutes and the craggy, old cowboys are the heroes of this movie. I love it. It drives home the fact that Clint Eastwood was constantly searching for ways to freshen and reinvestigate old cliches. He didn’t make a movie about women “keeping their place” and allowing injustices to be perpetrated around them; he didn’t even make a movie about two white men attempting to get away with harming a prostitute. He made a movie about two humans harming other humans, and getting their just deserts.
If you think you’re not a big fan of Westerns in general, I highly recommend that you seek out this movie and give it a chance. It’s poignant, beautiful…dare I say majestic? No matter what other adjectives you put in front of it, it’s just a good, good movie. One of Eastwood’s best, and deserving of the Oscar win.
Tomorrow, join me again as we take a look at Eastwood’s softer side in the Meryl Streep weepie, The Bridges of Madison County (1995). You won’t want to miss it!
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Welcome back to Day 3 of our Clint Eastwood spotlight where we’re talking about Dirty Harry from 1971.
It’s hard to imagine a more iconic role for an actor, but it’s just one of many for Mr. Eastwood in his long and illustrious career. And even though it would eventually become cliched through many knockoffs and bad movies, his anti-hero renegade cop character really broke the mold here.
The movie follows that title character as he tries to stop a serial killer named “Scorpio” in San Francisco. It’s loosely inspired by the real life serial killer “Zodiac” (which was more meticulously followed in David Fincher’s great film), but unlike in real life, we know who this killer is almost from the get-go. It takes away much of the potential suspense and inherent drama, and I think it’s to the determent of this film. It also doesn’t help that Scorpio is rather mundane and not especially powerful or menacing. He seems to stumble and get away on technicalities or by just dumb luck, and it makes much of the movie seem especially dated and laughable.
But that’s why the movie isn’t called “Scorpio,” I suppose.
To that end, Harry Callahan is great and very entertaining to watch. He has so many quotes, but perhaps the most famous one is the “Do you feel lucky, punk?” line. It’s fairly early on in the movie and unfortunately, it’s probably also the film’s best moment. The rest of the movie is mostly him being hampered by routine police work and being blamed for everything that goes wrong. It’s pretty tedious after awhile.
Still, for his character alone, I’m giving this movie three stars.
Come back here tomorrow when Kelley reviews the modern western Unforgiven.
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Welcome back for Day 2 of our Spotlight Series on Clint Eastwood! Today we’ll be discussing Mr. Eastwood’s directorial debut: a fascinating, eye-poppingly uncomfortable little thriller called Play Misty For Me (1971).
I use the word uncomfortable, not because the acting or directing is poor, but because Jessica Walter (whom you may recognize from Arrested Development) is REALLY good at playing a woman unhinged. Her character, Evelyn Draper, calls to mind Glenn Close cooking rabbits in Fatal Attraction, and even possesses shades of the hapless Barbra Streisand in The Way We Were (guess it’s a good thing K-K-K-Katie wasn’t a p-p-p-psychopath). It’s just…eesh.
But, alas, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Misty opens with the effortlessly cool Eastwood cruising along a gorgeous, rocky stretch of California coastline. His character, Dave Garver, is a disc jockey for a local jazz radio station (which, by the way, I’d totally believe with a voice like his), where he whisperingly croons poetry and takes on-air calls in between spinning Duke Ellington records. Garver is, in many ways, a typical Eastwood character: wolfishly handsome, aloof, a loner by day and…not a loner by night. He fills his midnight hours with women, and yet he still finds himself pining for one so-called “nice girl” that no amount of recreational love can replace. Shortly after reflecting upon these secret dreams of monogamy, his ex-girlfriend and archetypal One That Got Away, Tobie (Donna Mills), suddenly breezes back into his life– but not before Dave unwittingly becomes involved with a beautiful female fan of his show.
Evelyn Draper, the aforementioned craz-o, meets Dave one night (ostensibly by chance) in one of his favorite bars. She’s attractive, he’s attracted, and before you know it they’re stoking a fire and sipping whiskey cocktails at his place. She coyly drops a few hints, and Dave correctly guesses that Evelyn is the woman who has been calling the radio station every night, requesting he play the Errol Garner classic, “Misty”. This is the first in a litany of red flags, but it’s also a perfect example of what Barney Stinson (Neil Patrick Harris) refers to as the “Hot/Crazy Scale” on the show How I Met Your Mother. According to this scale, a woman can be a certain amount of crazy, as long as she is correspondingly hot. Evelyn is pretty hot, so, unfortunately for Dave, she gets away with a lot of seriously questionable behaviors that I suspect she would not have pulled off with slightly less enticing lounging pajamas.
From this point onward in the story, things get a bit hairy. Evelyn takes their casual sexcapades to mean that they are now romantically entwined forevermore. Dave, on the other hand, tries to brush Evelyn off in favor of pursuing a real relationship with Tobie, to which, as you might guess, Evelyn does not respond well. She’s been teetering on the precipice of a complete mental breakdown for some time, and when she spies Dave growing googly over Tobie’s icy blue eyes and Carol Brady hair…well, it’s curtains for Tobie, and anyone else who stands in her way. Cue Psycho stabbing music.
Here’s the thing about Play Misty For Me. It’s not a great movie–some of the dialogue is a little stilted, the blood isn’t the least bit realistic, and I think the chemistry between Eastwood and Mills as Tobie could have been better–but it IS very suspenseful and well worth your time. It’s obvious that Eastwood has a natural understanding of the camera, and he knows how to set up his shots well. Particularly for a first crack at directing, it’s a really good movie. I’ve seen it multiple times now, and each time I have to watch certain scenes in between my fingers. As I mentioned before, Jessica Walter is downright compelling as the scorned-woman-turned-killer, and it is hard to look away from any scene she is in. There are scares a-plenty, and if you’re looking for a good, eerie slasher flick on a Saturday night, this one’s a great choice (especially if you’re interested in exploring Eastwood’s early career).
Tomorrow, Charles will be reviewing perhaps Eastwood’s most well-remembered and quotable role, in the film that launched the “rogue cop” genre: Dirty Harry (1971). Be sure to come back and check that one out, as well as the rest of our 7 essential Clint Eastwood movies for this month’s Spotlight Series!
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Welcome back for the second monthly Spotlight Series from ItsJustAwesome.com! This week, to honor his birthday on May 31st, we’ll be reviewing 7 essential films starring everybody’s favorite outlaw: the inimitable Clint Eastwood.
Kicking things off in style, today we’ll be discussing one of Eastwood’s most iconic roles in the Sergio Leone classic, The Good, the Bad & the Ugly (1966).
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly is the third, and arguably the most famous, installment in Leone’s “Man with No Name” trilogy. Throughout the trilogy, Eastwood’s character is never named– he is identified only by nicknames others have given him. In this film, he’s referred to simply as “Blondie” by his reluctant frenemy, Tuco Ramirez (Eli Wallach). Don’t let that fool you; what he lacks in personal identification and elaborate backstory, Blondie via Eastwood embodies a new kind of American cowboy. He is the clear protagonist of the story, but he is somewhat morally ambiguous himself. Unlike many of the more common cowboy archetypes we’re accustomed to, Blondie is not necessarily goodness incarnate. It’s more like he’s good…ish. He shows himself to be compassionate towards his fellow man on more than one occasion, BUT he is also a bit of a mercenary, and has no problem with shooting first and asking questions later. It’s a fascinating combination of traits that makes Blondie much more an anti-hero than a traditional hero, and this type of role would become the trademark of Eastwood’s career.
Sergio Leone loved his sprawling, Western epics, and GBU is no exception. Clocking in at a whopping 2 hours and 58 minutes, this is not a brief film. It manages, however, to captivate the viewer’s interest right from the opening credits, aided spectacularly by an amazing original score from Ennio Morricone. Truly, this movie has one of the best, most iconic scores of all time–right up there with The Godfather, Gone with the Wind, The Third Man, and basically everything penned by John Williams. The music is almost a character in and of itself, and it supports the rest of the film with unforgettable panache. Listen to the clip below, and I guarantee you’ll immediately recognize the main theme, even if you haven’t seen the actual movie:
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly is set against a backdrop of the American Civil War, and focuses on the tenuous partnership between Tuco (the “Ugly”) and Blondie (the “Good”), who each possess one half of a secret. Before dying, a fugitive named Bill Carson bequeaths an enormous cache of stolen Confederate gold to Tuco (a tidy sum of $2,000), which he has buried somewhere in the desert. Unfortunately for Tuco, Carson only tells him one piece of the puzzle to the gold’s location– he tells Blondie the other. Realizing that neither of the two outlaws will be able to find the gold without the other, they warily strike up an alliance. Along the way, they encounter a brutal, sociopathic Union officer known as Angel Eyes (the “Bad”, played by Lee Van Cleef), who is also attempting to track down Carson’s illicit fortune. Tensions mount as the bizarre trio essentially race each other to the remote cemetery where the gold is buried, culminating in a three-way duel and one of the best movie endings I can recall seeing in quite some time.
This is a great movie, despite some minor stylistic quirks inherent to Spaghetti Westerns. For instance, because it was filmed in Spain and Italy with mostly non-English-speaking actors, much of the dialogue is actually dubbed over in English. It’s a bit jarring at first, but surprisingly it doesn’t really bother you for long. The story, the cinematography, the Ennio Morricone score, and even the gunfighting scenes are all so well-done that it’s easy to let yourself get sucked into Leone’s world, forgetting all about the weird dubbing.
It goes without saying that Eastwood’s performance here is a classic…but I’ll say it anyway, because it is. His trademarks are all there: the squint (apparently a sexy, sexy byproduct of his horse allergy mixed with the ever-present cigarillo), the laconic wit, the gravelly voice, the quiet confidence. Eli Wallach does chew his share of scenery as Tuco Ramirez, but it’s Eastwood’s picture from the get-go. If you haven’t already, check this movie out– it’s a much snappier take on the Western, and it’s easy to see why the “Man with No Name” trilogy is credited with reinvigorating the entire genre.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back again with Eastwood’s first foray into the world of directing: Play Misty For Me (1971). Be sure to join me for that one, because who would want to miss Eastwood dodging the knife-waving antics of a deranged Jessica Walter?!
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