Clint Eastwood and Issues of American Masculinity

CLINT EASTWOOD

AND ISSUES OF AMERICAN MASCULINITY

CLINT EASTWOOD

AND ISSUES OF AMERICAN MASCULINITY

DRUCILLA CORNELL

Copyright © 2009 Fordham University Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Fordham University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

The final, definitive version of Chapter 5 has been published as "Parables of Revenge and Masculinity in Clint Eastwood’s Mystic River" in Law, Culture and the Humanities 1 (2005), pp. 316–32, by SAGE Publications Ltd. All rights reserved, © 2005. It appears online at http://lch.sagepub.com/cgi/reprint/1/3/316.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cornell, Drucilla.

    Clint Eastwood and issues of American masculinity / Drucilla Cornell.—1st ed.

         p.   cm.

     Includes bibliographical references and index.

     Includes filmography.

     ISBN 978-0-8232-3012-9 (cloth : alk. paper)

     ISBN 978-0-8232-3013-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)

     1. Eastwood, Clint, 1930– —Criticism and interpretation.    2. Masculinity in motion pictures.    I. Title.

PN1998.3.E325C67    2009

791.4302’33092—dc22

                                                     2009002461

Printed in the United States of America

11  10  09    5  4  3  2  1

First edition

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction: Shooting Eastwood

1   Writing the Showdown: What’s Left Behind When the Sun Goes Down

2   Dancing with the Double: Reaching Out from the Darkness Within

3   Ties That Bind: The Legacy of a Mother’s Love

4   Psychic Scars: Transformative Relationships and Moral Repair

5   Parables of Revenge and Masculinity in Mystic River Roger Berkowitz and Drucilla Cornell

6   Militarized Manhood: Shattered Images and the Trauma of War

7   Shades of Recognition: Privilege, Dignity, and the Hubris of White Masculinity

Conclusion: The Last Take

Notes

Filmography: Clint Eastwood as Director

Index

Preface

As for so many of my generation, Clint Eastwood was simply a part of the social landscape in which I grew up. My ex-husband met him on the set of Rawhide, and my mother campaigned for him when he ran for mayor of Carmel, California. My father, like so many of his Republican cohorts, simply idolized Eastwood—he was their man. Still, I never really paid much attention to him, because he was part of a landscape that I thought I had long outgrown as a feminist. Indeed, my first opportunity for serious engagement with Eastwood’s work as a director came only a few years ago during a visit with my father in Laguna Beach, where the small movie theatre was playing only two films, one of which was Eastwood’s Mystic River. My father surprised me by warning me to avoid the film, commenting that something bad must have happened to Eastwood—he claimed Mystic River was the worst film he had seen since Closely Watched Trains, a film that I had dragged him to see when I was nineteen. He said that Eastwood seemed to be making some point about men, but dismissively he confessed that he had no idea what it was supposed to mean. Naturally, I immediately went off to see the film—and I agreed wholeheartedly that Eastwood was, indeed, addressing some of the most profound questions of American masculinity. But unlike my father, I thought I got the point.

The very man who seemed to be such a disappointment to my father had become to my mind one of those rare men who actually struggle with what it means to be a good man at a time when all the props that held up ideals of masculine goodness had fallen into disarray. Eastwood seemed to have changed and grown in his work both as an actor and as a director. Let me emphasize, however, that this is a book that engages almost entirely with Eastwood as a director. Indeed, the film scholar Dennis Bingham has commented that Eastwood provides us with something like a twelve-step program away from the mistakes of traditional masculinity.¹ This book, I want to stress, is not focused on Eastwood’s personal journey as a man, nor as he was produced as a cultural icon nor on the specificity of his acting style. I have a different project, which is to study Eastwood as a director as he is relevant to certain major philosophical and ethical themes that I have personally articulated throughout my life’s work. The particular tenure of this project compels me to take up all of what I consider to be the pressing issues of masculinity as it is caught up in the very definition of ideas of revenge, violence, moral repair, and justice. Eastwood grapples with this involvement of masculinity in and through many of the great symbols of American life, including cowboys, boxing, police dramas, and ultimately war—perhaps the single greatest symbol of what it means (or is supposed to mean) to be a man.

Thus, I still have hope that my father may actually read this book and that it may take him to a deeper appreciation of Eastwood’s work as a director as well as the dilemmas facing any aspiration to ethical manhood. Indeed, I am hoping that this book will be widely read by men, perhaps more widely read than some of my other feminist work. Masculinity has recently become a very popular and important topic for social critics, and I have long wanted to address some of these issues myself. But when I tried to think about writing on masculinity in general, I felt lost in a project too large for myself—and so, having written with Roger Berkowitz on Mystic River, I decided to undertake a smaller project that nevertheless provides me with the space for at least preliminary reflection on almost all of the great symbols of American masculinity. If I could not write about all men, maybe I could handle just one.

This book, then, is not a traditional book of film criticism or a cinematographic biography; neither is it Eastwood’s unauthorized biography. As a work of social commentary and ethical philosophy, it is inspired in large part by the work of my late colleague Wilson Carey McWilliams, who turned his brilliant analysis of American political thought primarily toward the world of literature, arguing that it has always been in our cultural products that Americans express our greatest political ideals and concepts. In the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, of course, the new medium of film has clearly dominated the scene of artistic cultural production.

Eastwood takes us through some of the great images and symbols of American life through his engagement with classically American film genres from cowboy movies to police thrillers to boxing heroics. In a world in which we seem to be losing our grasp on shared symbols along with community itself, Eastwood’s films work with those fragmented symbols that remain in order to engage masculinity with the most profound moral and ethical issues facing us today. Over and over again he returns us to that simple question: what does it mean to live a life as a good man in a complex and violent world? I concede that much is to be said for the broad literature that has criticized the idea of the director as auteur, the originator and sole author of the images and narrative line of his films. However, although Hollywood imposes real limits on what will be allowed to reach the screen, through all my work I have argued against a theory of the subject that pretends to tell us exactly how we are limited and constituted so that, underneath it all, we cannot find even a remnant of the subject who creates. Indeed, if one wished to put this idea of the subject that is irreducible to any theory of it as constituted as a social object or, in Eastwood’s case, a cultural object, we could be reminded here of Jacques Derrida’s endless emphasis on the iterability of all linguistic and symbolic forms, including those which both limit and allow a range of subjective agency. This insight into the inevitable iterability of linguistic and symbolic forms even as they are repeated to give us a meaningful world could be used in two ways to understand my own insistence that it is possible to study Eastwood as a director. First, there could be no theory of the subject that so encompasses Eastwood as a cultural production that all of his agency as a director is simply eclipsed. Second, genres are indeed symbolic as well as cinematic forms, and it is precisely Eastwood’s subtlety in reworking these forms (while seemingly repeating them) that shows the power of iteration to break up as well as to ground the bounds of meaning.² Whatever other factors may have contributed to his films, there is no doubt that Eastwood’s interests and choices have stamped his work with a distinctive trajectory that builds upon, disrupts, and reenvisions the very masculine stereotype for which he is known so well. Indeed, what makes Eastwood’s work so interesting is how he engages with accepted genres and pushes them to their limits.

I am taking Eastwood’s engagement with these fundamental moral and ethical questions as a point of departure working toward the possibility that men and women can reenvision our greatest ideals in a configuration that does not doom us to a world of loveless relationships or the stultifying reality of male violence, whether in the chaos of war or in the halls of our universities and high schools, as well as the violence that erupts in our own homes. Thus, this book is not simply organized in any strict sense around film genres (though it does include chapters on the Western, the Romance, and the war movie) but also around the ethical issues raised by certain related constellations in Eastwood’s films, focusing on their meaning for all of us as we attempt to see our way through what I have elsewhere termed the glaring phantasmagoria of advanced capitalism that no doubt provides Hollywood with its very condition of possibility.³

Having said this, I am not reading Eastwood as primarily a political filmmaker, or one of course who has explicit deconstructive motivations, but rather as a filmmaker caught within the integral connections between ideals of masculinity and the fundamental moral and ethical issues of our time. The importance of Eastwood’s cinematic journey is that he reconstructs the images of manhood in such a way that it is almost impossible to avoid the question—what does it mean to be, not just an ethical person, but specifically an ethical man?

Throughout his directed films Eastwood challenges and explores the deep thematic networks of white masculinity as they have come to be encoded in genre films. By so doing the dilemmas of white masculinity, particularly the dilemma of what it means to be a good man, are brought to the fore rather than being erased in uncomfortable stereotypes. In a century ridden by the traumas of an almost unimaginable violence against any ethical ideal of humanity, which have undercut the stereotypes of the white male hero who makes it against all odds, we cannot expect to rest assured in easy fantasies that we can recapture the good old days when what it meant to be on the right side of the law could be shown in a simple light. Eastwood’s engagement with conventional genres does not shy away from the trauma of the conventions of manhood that have been undermined. It is the struggle to engage with all the complexities of what it means to be a good man that makes Eastwood’s movies so powerful when we are oftentimes thrown between images of meaningless violence, including sexual violence, that portray nothing more than an empty shell of the masculinity they are supposedly propping up. Perhaps that is Eastwood’s ultimate strength as a director in that he reworks genres so that the stereotypes of masculinity fall away—and, by so doing, remain faithful to a glimmer of how men might be different, and this difference is always shown from within an ethical conflict. It is this fidelity to ethical conflict as meaningful if never easily resolved and to the connection between masculinity and the struggle to be ethical that makes Eastwood movies so relevant now. It is this fidelity to moral conflict and its connection to a crisis in masculinity that in a deep sense motivated an ethical feminist⁴ to write this book.

Acknowledgments

First I would like to thank Elrich Kline for his tireless editing and reediting of this book. It is no exaggeration to say that he went through every page with me. He also carefully watched all the movies that are analyzed in the pages that follow.

Mieke Krynauw worked with enthusiasm to respond to readers’ reports. Her careful attention both to those reports and to our response to them has made this book more accessible.

My daughter Serena Cornell watched all the movies with me and carefully wrote down the quotations from the movies because I did not know that you could get the scripts from the Internet. When I asked my daughter what her favourite Clint Eastwood movie was, she said, the one that you did not ask me a hundred times to listen to so I could write it down. Her actual favourite is Million Dollar Baby.

When I realized that I could get the scripts from the Internet, my goddaughter Laura Shaffer used them to recheck the quotations that my daughter had had to transcribe. This book was truly a family affair because my daughter had to then go back and check the Internet transcriptions against the transcriptions she had made.

My students Sam Fuller and Nyoko Muvangua played a crucial role in preparing the final manuscript. Their careful work has undoubtedly played a major role in ensuring a well-ordered manuscript. I am in their debt for their hard work.

Dr. Jaco Barnard-Naude and Dr. Ken Panfilio read many of the chapters and gave me comments. The book has undoubtedly been improved because of their careful insights.

Jessica Benjamin offered insightful comments from her own original work on psychoanalysis and feminism, and her recent work on psychoanalysis, retribution, and acknowledgment.

Dorothy Pietersson has been an indispensable help to me in running my daily life and always being there for my daughter. I thank her from the bottom of my heart.

Roger Berkowitz not only collaborated with me on one of the chapters but has also given me critical commentary on the entire book. I thank him not only for his comments but also for his intellectual companionship for the past fifteen years.

CLINT EASTWOOD

AND ISSUES OF AMERICAN MASCULINITY

Introduction: Shooting Eastwood

Clint Eastwood has been acknowledged as one of this country’s most original and provocative directors, but this classification fails to recognize the real depth of Eastwood’s complex trajectory as a director. He grapples with all of the most significant ethical issues of our time: war, vengeance, the role of law, relations between the sexes, the meaning of friendship, and indeed with what it means to lead an ethical life as a good man in late modernity. Most of Eastwood’s movies do focus on men—on a certain brand of manliness—but from the beginning of his directorial journey he has been more complicated than he has appeared, working with some of the most sophisticated literature that addresses the meaning of straight white maleness throughout the history of the United States.

Eastwood became famous for the Dirty Harry movies. Indeed, his famous phrase in the first film of the series—Make my day, which is spoken as he stares down a suspect over the barrel of a .44 Magnum—has saturated the everyday vernacular of the English language, even appearing in American politics. Ronald Reagan famously used that phrase as a slogan in his election campaign. The projection of the image of magnum force is explicitly phallic in its identification of man with gun. We see the gun from the side, initially, in what seems like a frozen image; this goes on for a seemingly unbearable span of time, as we wait for the gun to be cocked and aimed. It is cocked, it’s pointed, and we hear Clint Eastwood’s voice before we even see his face: But being this is a forty-four Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’¹ It’s not surprising, given these powerful images from the Dirty Harry movies, that Eastwood as an actor is identified by some of his critics as representing the perfect image of remorseless masculinity and the phallic power of the outlaw-hero who must never be drawn into the domestic world of women.

Eastwood may spend large portions of a film pursuing a woman, and he may ride off with a woman at a film’s conclusion, but if an Eastwood character is ever married in a film’s back story, he is inevitably estranged, divorced, or widowed. Because Eastwood’s masculine presentation is incompatible with the daily frustrations and accommodations of conventional family life, a stable loving relationship becomes for his characters an unrepresentable element in an impossible past.²

The very power of these images, however, has taken even the most sophisticated authors down a wrong path when it comes to viewing Eastwood’s complex engagement with violence and masculinity in his directorial trajectory. Indeed, in his first film as director, Eastwood begins to examine what it means for men to experience remorse—often through their own investment in the saving power of phallic fantasy—and even when that fantasy is most mundanely played out in an actual sexual relationship.

Consider Eastwood’s directorial debut, Play Misty for Me (1971),³ a movie that has been identified as an originator of a particular genre of thriller in which obsessive femininity is shown as being the ultimate danger to masculine survival. But unlike some of the films to follow, such as Fatal Attraction, Eastwood breaks open the psychical fantasy of the women on whom these films are based. We do not have the traditional elements of the paradigm, in which a basically innocent man is lured by carnal temptations to a woman who is often portrayed as having phallic power—the evil woman in Fatal Attraction is a lawyer—and out-of-control female sexuality. In these movies, of course, the good man is restored to home and family while the evil woman is brutally killed. This brutality is seemingly necessary given her fantasized sexual potency, which incredibly withstands bullets and multiple knifings as in Fatal Attraction. In Eastwood’s Play Misty for Me, however, the stereotype of masculine innocence is reworked and questioned, and there is no glorying in the death of the female antagonist. Although it is his first directed film, Play Misty for Me already highlights Eastwood’s penchant for spinning the themes of a genre into a sort of commentary on the genre itself. Dave (Eastwood) explicitly plays out the perspective of a man’s blindness to a woman’s view of what goes on in a sexual relationship. The main character is, of course, a deeply troubled—in fact, psychotic—woman. However, unlike other later films in this genre, Eastwood plays this narrative not only for the thrill of suspense, but rather for the tragedy of Dave’s failure to read the signs of her anguish, of her growing desperation—a failure premised on his inability to understand what it might mean for a woman to take on a sexual relationship with a man.

Indeed, remorse runs throughout the film. Eastwood devotes considerable time to Dave’s attempt to make good on a relationship that he had, in his own mind, already failed. Here we see Eastwood grappling (as he will later in The Bridges of Madison County) with how to portray on film a scene of lovemaking rather than sex. In Play Misty for Me Dave seeks to win back the heart of his lost love, believing that she has rightly condemned him for his failures of attentiveness, sensitivity, and fidelity. Whatever one makes of the sentimentality of filming the two lovers in the forest with Roberta Flack’s First Time Ever I Saw Your Face in the background, the opening of that scene is Dave’s explicit sorrow at his betrayal of their relationship. Ironically, it is this remorseful focus that distracts him from what is going on in the other woman—for whom a one-night stand has turned into obsessive attachment. Even as the movie ends in his stalker’s inevitable death, after her psychosis has run completely out of control, the last scene projects more than just her plummet into the ocean. It is not simply that he can finally be done with her. Instead, the film closes by acknowledging the horror of what has happened not only to Dave as the one who was stalked but also to Evelyn, as the tragic consequence of Dave’s misreading her understanding of the meaning of sex.

By Million Dollar Baby, Eastwood’s concern with remorse and repentance has become an obsession, which is expressed through a father’s daily letters to a daughter who refuses even to open them and sends them back. But then as we have seen remorse, repentance, and moral repair are present in Eastwood’s representations of masculinity from the very beginning of his career as a director. For now I would like to draw attention to another early film, Tightrope (1984), which was produced but not directed by Eastwood. In this film the Eastwood character is a man deserted by his wife and abandoned as to be a single parent to his children. We will return to this film in more depth in Chapter 2, and will also explore my reasons for examining it in this book even though Eastwood did not direct the film, but for now I want to emphasize that Tightrope contradicts the critical implication that Eastwood characters are never portrayed in stereotypical domestic situations or in sustained romantic involvements with women. Tightrope opens with Wes Block (Eastwood) playing ball with his two girls, who convince him to adopt yet another stray dog to add to their nearly uncontainable menagerie. The chaos of Block’s life as a single parent would seem to underscore the need for a mother or caretaker to care for the children while their father is away at work—but the woman who actually enters Block’s life is far from the milk-toast good woman you would expect to save him. Beryl Thibodeaux is a fearless woman, even when facing Block’s own terror at the perverted dark side of his own sexuality. She provides one of the most positive and affirmative images in film of a strong-willed feminist activist viewed as a potential lover. Rarely does Hollywood portray a sexy, witty feminist, who runs women’s self-defense classes, as a desirable sex object expressly because of her strength and because of her feminism. Block does not need to save her; indeed, he ultimately catches the murderer only because she has effectively stalemated the murderer’s attack.⁴

Eastwood maintains a focus on the vulnerability of men’s phallic pretentions throughout his films. This focus runs through the various themes that he engages, including the so-called masculine responsibility to save others or to prevent them from being ensnared by a boyhood or manhood gone wrong. In A Perfect World (1993), Red Garnett (Eastwood) attempts to intervene in the fate of a young boy, but the ultimate failure of his effort underscores the hubris of control that lies at the heart of phallic fantasy.⁵ Once again in this film we see a strong feminist character; this time it is Sally Gerber, who earns Garnett’s respect during the manhunt that provides the film’s dramatic tension, despite his initial sexist dismissal of her. As we come to fully understand the implications of Garnett’s relationship with the escaped prisoner Butch, we see why he is so haunted by this case. At the end of the film, with Butch slowly dying in a field, the criminologist Sally Gerber attempts to comfort Garnett, telling him, You know you did everything you could. Don’t you? Garnett responds, I don’t know nothin’. Not a damn thing. The echoes of these lines find us a long way from pretentions of a cocky, assertive masculinity.

What I am suggesting is that by reading Eastwood’s involvement in these films against the grain of even his best critics, we can grapple with some of the most searing issues of masculinity that confront us in late twentieth and early twenty-first century America. Yes, Eastwood rides off into the sunset at the end of some of his films, a solitary figure with no need or promise for the complexity of a lasting connection, but he also struggles visibly with the contradictions of masculinity in relationships with both men and women.

This concern with the right relations between men and women (and, in the later Eastwood, between the generations) is a touchstone leading us to many of the dramatic high points in Eastwood’s directed films. Eastwood comes into his own artistic position in the America after the closing of the frontiers, where the drama of the cowboy has an even more powerful hold on the imagination as American life transforms historical reality into pure fantasy. As Lee Clark Mitchell has pointed out in his classic study, the Western genre itself was an elegy to what was never actually there except as a set of ideals for masculinity—and, indeed, for a kind of cultural and moral horizon that reminds the audience of what it means to be a man. As Mitchell writes,

More generally, the central terms West and Western, which have forged American cultural identity, are less self-evident than initial impressions might lead one to believe. Actual landscapes are everywhere recast in the Western, which conceives of setting not as authentic locale but as escapist fantasy. The West in the Western matters less as verifiable topography than as space removed from cultural coercion, lying beyond ideology (and therefore, of course, the most ideological of terrains).

The one aspect of the landscape celebrated consistently in the Western is the opportunity for renewal, for self-transformation, for release from constraints associated with an urbanized East. Whatever else the West may be, in whatever form it is represented, it always signals freedom to achieve some truer state of humanity.⁶

But Eastwood appears not only in the waning shadow of the cowboy mythos. He also comes to a generation traumatized in the aftermath of two world wars who has lost faith in the idea of progressive historical movement toward a better, more peaceful world—indeed, who has lost faith in the possibility of a world where shared meanings are essential to the aspiration for an ideal democracy founded on the rule of law.

In Bronco Billy (1980), Eastwood plays a cowboy who is past his time, one who is left only with the dreams of what it might have been to be a man in the true West. He must actually live on as a performer of great deeds only in vaudeville acts.⁷ Here, Eastwood clearly presents the cowboy (or at least one who still has the dream of living as a cowboy) anachronistically. Indeed, Bronco Billy poignantly struggles to live up to ideals of masculinity that are available to him only in his own parody of his fantasy of the West, his fantasy of himself as a cowboy. It is a story of a man out of sorts with his time.

Of course, Eastwood also has a more playful (and, indeed, ironic) relationship to the ideal of the cowboy, and as we shall see he understands it as both a fantasy and an allegory. In his later film Space Cowboys (2000), we see Eastwood explicitly and enjoyably featuring a friendship that has run a difficult life.⁸ Four young men form lasting friendships as participants in an early military forerunner to NASA’s space program. As Hawk Hawkins (Tommy