Western – Bitch Flicks

Kelly Reichardt’s ‘Meek’s Cutoff’: The Camera’s Relationship to Characters and Power

In reclaiming the era, Kelly Reichardt created a representation that centers the experiences of those not served by the traditional Western. A view of the life of women divorced from the patriarchal lens, a view of the treatment of Native Americans divorced from the lens of white supremacy.

This guest post written by E Warren appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors, Part 2.

Somewhere downhill, a short distance away, the men are talking. Their voices tickle the edge of our comprehension. “What are they talking about?” someone asks, “Were you told?” “They’re talking about whether to hang Stephen Meek.” A slight pause, the women on the bluff go back to collecting their kindling. The camera lingers on this image for a while. Later on, we will find out how that discussion in the valley went, one of the men will relay proceedings to us, and we trust that he is being truthful. For now, there’s work that needs doing.

As for Meek himself, it’s widely agreed amongst the characters that he probably deserves his sentence. Having led their caravan on a two-week shortcut, now well into its fifth week, and into territory Meek happily admits is on no map he ever read, the caravan continue marching westward; hoping against hope to blithely stumble their way back into civilization.

Meek’s Cutoff is a 2010 film directed by Kelly Reichardt. Compared at the time to Gus Van Sant’s Death Trilogy, it shares the bleak tone and sparse narrative in its look at the lives of the women on a caravan lost on the Oregon Trail in 1845. With little dialogue, Reichardt relies on the images captured by director of photography Christopher Blauvelt (in their first collaboration) to create a sense of their place in the world.

The film opens on the fording of a river. Observing dispassionately, from a distance, these anonymous figures wade through chest high water, their belongings held above their heads. We wait for someone to fall. Nobody does. The water sounds loud and fierce in our ears, the rickety wagons tremble in the flow. Once all are across, the men sit by the shore planning the way forwards. Everyone seems glad the trial is passed. It is the last running water they’ll see.

Before setting out, the women of the caravan wash clothes at the bank of the river. We see them from beside, behind, above; their bonnets conceal their faces. We see three figures: one pink, one green, one yellow. Eventually their identities are revealed to us: Emily Tetherow (Michelle Williams), Glory White (Shirley Henderson), and Millie Gately (Zoe Kazan). We come to know them by the colors of their dresses long before we get a closer look at their faces. Their names come up only in passing.

It is morning then, and Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood) emerges from his tent — Reichardt employs a static camera as we observe the scene. She then creates three shots: the Whites, the Tetherows, the Gateleys. The men are standing, pouring coffee, extinguishing fires. The women are seated, placed towards the back of the compositions, their presence minimized. The caravan sets off and again we see this division. The men lead their oxen while their wives walk a short distance behind, subordinate.

In the American expansion, men gave up their whole lives to head bravely on towards a new west. They would leave their jobs and homes to adventure toward a brighter future. What did women leave behind? The responsibilities of “women’s work” could not be abandoned on the journey. They still were expected to cook, clean, and to rear their children. These women, in their marriage vows, would have promised to love, honor, and obey. Their work never changed, they were just expected to trek as well; Reichardt speaks of the historical sources in this interview with Filmmaker Magazine.

The working woman in Meek’s Cutoff is an isolated one. If at rest she sits, at work she crouches to wash, set fires, and knead dough. In their long calico dresses, it seems an uncomfortable position to be in. In this form, the women are immobilized. For the camera to capture them, it must single them out in the frame, its borders invisible divisions between them. The men debate, their work connects them; we see them huddled together having important discussions. Even the young boy, Jimmy White (Tommy Nelson), is included in these, the camera establishing the patriarchy he’s growing into.

Eventually, the film provides an image of a space for women: a knitting circle. It is quiet, but over half an hour into the film, it is the first time we establish a physical closeness between these female characters. Then Stephen Meek invades; he hijacks the conversation, and with it the frame. Towering over them, they are isolated once again.

Portraying companionship: Emily Tetherow (Michelle Williams) and Glory White (Shirley Henderson) share a rare two-shot.

After the men venture off to find water, Emily encounters a Native American man (Rod Rondeaux, credited as “The Indian”). The film reaches a turning point as she runs to the gun. It is an image we have not been primed for, if a working woman crouches and a resting woman sits, what does this new form mean? Jean-Luc Godard said that all you needed for a movie was “a girl and a gun” (though the credit for this is disputed.) Can culture rationalize an armed man in a way that it finds impossible with an armed woman?

In American society, male gun owners still outnumber women who own guns at a rate of roughly three to one. Culture has established a visual shorthand: the uniformed soldier; the cowboy in a long coat and wide brimmed hat; the suited gangster; the isolated teenager dressed in whatever style is determined “alternative.” We are led to understand the roles these people play, the positions they exist within society. They are all traditionally male figures. Films such as Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty and Denis Villeneuve’s Sicario are notable for their disruption of these culturally stratified roles, examining how they are inhabited by women. On their own, a woman with a gun seems to signify chaos, as women traditionally have when refusing to occupy their correct position in patriarchal society.

After that subversive act, the film starts to change, a war starts to be waged between Emily Tetherow and Stephen Meek. If neither of them know the way to civilization, or even to water, why should it matter who makes the calls? It extends beyond the caravan to the very structure of the film itself. Emily starts becoming more prominent in the frame, her actions command the edit, and she invades the spaces previously reserved for the men. Reichardt has spent so long defining the character’s role in society that to see her step out of it is arresting.

This change happens in part because of the arrival of another unknown: the Native American man is captured. A vote is taken and the characters choose to leave him alive, hoping he can lead them to water. The man speaks no English and he is a different race than the travelers; he is now the Other and the unknown. The presence of a more notable Other empowers the women — racism becomes a more powerful motivator than misogyny. For this man to have control of the caravan’s direction begins to upset the balance of the white patriarchy, the established order begins to dissolve, yet white supremacy still reigns as he remains captive.

With this shift, so too does the rigid formalism of the cinematography. The previously united caravan falls in on itself; they appear to shrink, consumed by the landscapes they traverse and the crushing darkness of night. Stephen Meek, who previously commanded the frame, loses control of it as the Native American man now takes ownership of it. It is through him that Emily gets to explore her relationship to power, to the film’s lens.

By placing the camera on the kidnapped man, the power the lens can give is also gated. It is then that Emily sets about gaining it. She approaches the man, in the context of the place she must inhabit in this world as a woman. Rather than exhibiting the force that her male companions do, which necessarily comes in opposition, separating them in the frame, she cooks for him and fixes his garments. Their interaction connects them; in the language of the film, the power is shared.

Reichardt has the film take the travelers’ perspective, lost in this unrecognizable territory, the traditional 4:3 aspect ratio constrains our ability to see, much like the bonnets worn by our leads restrict their peripheral vision. The Native American man’s dialogue, spoken in the language of the Nez Perce tribe, is not subtitled. The film is not content to “whiten” the character in order to make him accessible to a modern audience; we are asked instead to understand that his humanity is not a function of his relatability. The history of the United States is inextricable from the subjugation of Native peoples. The film observes the exploitation of this man, of his knowledge. Even Emily, whose relationship to him veers the closest to respect, still operates through the context of subjugation; when she proclaims that he knows there’s water over the next hill, she remains as ignorant of him as her compatriots.

The climax of Meek’s Cutoff comes with guns drawn. Emily defends the man from Meek, the embodiment of the failure of the white supremacist patriarchy. The angle puts the two side by side with Meek, opposing them and creating a barrier between the two forms. When Meek backs down, walks away, the earth tones of his clothes disappear him into the ground. A new order has arisen.

At the film’s close, the man is leading them again, away from the camera; we do not know if they will find water. Their position is not materially any better than it began yet the divisions have fallen. At last, the women and the men appear to be travelling as one. The Native American man, however, is still their captive.

At the time, Meek’s Cutoff was extensively described as an “anti-Western.” Reichardt rejected the label. In an interview with T Magazine, she said, “You know, it’s funny. If you’re not a white, straight man and you show a different point of view in a film, you need a particular category to go into, when it’s just a different point of view.” The history of the American West is just that, regardless of how it has been depicted through the history of cinema.

In reclaiming the era, Reichardt created a representation that centers the experiences of those not served by the traditional Western. A view of the life of women divorced from the patriarchal lens, a view of the treatment of Native Americans divorced from the lens of white supremacy. It may be a different perspective on the Western, but it remains an honest perspective on The West.

E Warren is a writer and actor in the UK. More film and culture writing can be found at their blog A Grand Quiet.

‘A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night’: A Vampire with No Name

Enter The Girl, a mostly silent observer to the rotting underbelly of Bad City. She shares a kinship with the likes of Shane and The Man with No Name — a hero with mysterious origins and questionable morality who ultimately defends those who cannot help themselves. … Once The Girl arrives, it’s essentially Amirpour’s playground as she honors and subverts Westerns and horror films.

This guest post written by Samantha Cross appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

The vampire as metaphor has had a fascinating staying power since Bram Stoker’s Dracula turned Eastern European folklore into a gothic tale of sexual repression and liberation. At times, vampires are feral beasts of horror or sexy, brooding heroes tortured by their own immortality. Or… Twilight. The point is that vampires, while we may associate them with certain traits, can be as powerful, vulnerable, and insightful as the narrative allows. Their monstrosity is subjective, giving storytellers ample room to explore the nature of vampires and the worlds they inhabit. In A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, writer/director Ana Lily Amirpour crafts a vampire that is neither virtuous nor villain, but somewhere in between. Though she is what we would typically classify as a “monster,” it becomes clear that Bad City has more than its fair share of demons.

Billed as “the first Iranian vampire Western,” A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night exists in a deliberately nebulous space, keeping it open to interpretation. One can view it through a feminist lens as The Girl (Sheila Vand) primarily attacks men who bully and exert their own power on others, mainly coming to the defense of a sex worker, Atti (Mozhan Marnò), who’s connected to both Saeed (Dominic Rains) the local drug dealer and Arash’s (Arash Marandi) father who struggles with addiction, Hossein (Marshall Manesh). There’s also commentary to be gleaned from the frequent shots of oil rigs, the open, almost casual display of dead bodies in a ditch, and the stagnant feel of Bad City that appears to be stuck in several time periods as the director’s feelings on Iran and the country’s culture. Amirpour, however, finds the interpretation to be more reflective of the interpreter. As for her own view on the themes in her film, she told the Los Angeles Times:

“In this case, it’s really about loneliness. A vampire is the loneliest, most isolated cut-off type of creature. She also has something very bad to hide about who she is and it’s a brilliant disguise. It becomes a way to stay under the radar and underestimated. There are a million ways to read it. It will tell you more about you than it does about me.”

Upon a second viewing of the film, through my most critical eye (the left one), I think Amirpour’s ideas of loneliness, coupled with the elements of disguise and isolation, fit in perfectly with what should be called an “industrial” Western. Like John Ford, Amirpour uses her wide shots to establish the vast landscape of the film’s world, but instead of lush valleys and sweeping canyons we get a flat, barren desert where oil rigs have replaced the painted hills. We’re not meant to look upon Bad City and its surroundings with awe. We’re meant to understand how singular it is, a mirage of a vibrant city filled with vagrants and criminals who prey upon the less fortunate; a place where everyone who can is trying to get out of Dodge by any means necessary. Basic setup for your Magnificent Sevens, Silverados, or Unforgivens, right?

Enter The Girl, a mostly silent observer to the rotting underbelly of Bad City. She shares a kinship with the likes of Shane and The Man with No Name — a hero with mysterious origins and questionable morality who ultimately defends those who cannot help themselves. It’s a slow buildup to her first appearance in the movie, roughly fifteen minutes, but Amirpour devotes that time to crafting the right circumstances for The Girl to enter and sets up how one decision leads the rest of the film onward.

One such means of exploration is through a tried-and-true staple of Westerns: the standoff. The highlight of many films, it can be as simple as a duel at high noon or as action-packed as a ragtag group of hired guns staring down another group of hired guns for possession of a small town. It’s a moment of tension designed to make the payoff, ya know, killing someone, that much more intense. Amirpour flips the script, so to speak, using the standoff for the deliberate purpose of taunting The Girl’s potential victims as well as the audience. She establishes a pattern early on: observe, follow, and strike. The cover of night adds to the horror element and the heightened sound makes her footsteps audible, but The Girl stays far enough away that her marks are unnerved just enough by her presence. I’m especially fond of her shadow game with Hossein. It’s humorous but still cut with the right amount of suspicion over how it will play out given her previous encounter with Saeed earlier in the film. It’s only when she’s ready to strike that the gap closes and the standoff ends. The kill becomes an intimate yet feral moment because, unlike her male counterparts who brandish guns at a distance, The Girl’s sole weapon is her own body.

The standoff within A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night also applies to Amirpour’s use of close-ups. A lot of time is spent in keeping the tension as tight as possible, especially once we know The Girl’s game and how she executes her brand of “justice.” Because The Girl is a taciturn character, the emotional beats and her contemplative nature have to be seen up close, which, in turn, heightens the anxiety of the scene even more. The intimacy of the shots between The Girl and Arash are rife with romantic tension, but there’s a similar feeling of dread as the camera cuts back and forth. Her proximity may very well mean death for the second party. It’s a standoff created by the camera, somewhat reminiscent of Sergio Leone, but Amirpour relies more on letting the takes breathe instead of intensive cutting, letting Vand and Marandi’s eyes convey far more than the dialogue.

In many ways, The Girl resembles a comic book vigilante as much as a cowboy anti-hero. I mean, come on; a silent avenger of the night draped in black who inspires as much fear as the monsters she fights? Where have I seen that before? Batman, obviously. The heroic element was not lost on Amirpour either, though her inspiration came more from The Girl’s choice of costume:

“In Iran, I have had to wear a hijab [headscarf], and personally I find it completely suffocating. I don’t want to be covered up in all that cloth. But there was something about the chador though. It’s made of a different fabric. It’s soft and silky and it catches the air. When I put it on, I felt supernatural. But I also get to take it off.”

The themes of disguise and concealment are as endemic to Westerns as they are to superheroes. Cinematic cowboys are always running from something — the law, their past — so remaking themselves and hiding from their previous actions requires some measure of disguise, whether it’s a new name or a handy little domino mask. Either way, the conclusion is the same: you can never truly escape who you are. The Girl goes through a similar struggle. Atti asks The Girl, after a very strange conversation, “What are you?” Amirpour then cuts to The Girl back on the streets, seemingly contemplating this question, as she slowly approaches and feeds on a homeless man. It’s not the subtlest piece of character development, but it serves to address the supposed virtue of the The Girl. Stalking the villains of Bad City is easy enough, but what’s a vampire to do when they’re not readily available?

The Girl, for all intents and purposes, is hiding from herself. The chador acts as her cape and cowl but it’s also a line of demarcation. When she walks the streets of Bad City, she’s a shadow, a spectre haunting the less than savory elements of the city. When she takes off the chador, she’s a seemingly young woman who finds solace in sad songs and dances to synth-pop surrounded by musical icons. Her hunger and the nature of that hunger are never addressed until it begins to conflict with the small yet complicated entanglements known as human relationships. As a side note, when The Girl and Arash meet and speak to each other for the first time, Arash – high as a kite – is wearing a Dracula costume from a party. It’s a brilliant juxtaposition that the two begin to form their romance when both are essentially in disguise. And it’s probably my favorite scene in the movie.

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, is still well worth your time if you have any interest in the work of upcoming directors like Amirpour or desire something more substantial from your vampire-themed entertainment. There are also two issues of a comic book written by Amirpour available for purchase that give you some background on The Girl.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night and Scares Us

Feminist Fangs: The Activist Symbolism of Violent Vampire Women

10 Women-Directed Films for Halloween

Samantha “Sam” Cross is best described as a poly-geek, soaking up as much information as possible to better appreciate the things she loves. An archivist by trade, she’s also a fan of comic books, movies, music, and television, never shying away from talking about or analyzing pop culture minutiae. You can listen to her as the host of That Girl with the Curls podcast where she chats about her pop culture obsession in the company of friends or with special guests. Follow her @darling_sammy on Twitter.

Queer Post-Apocalyptic Western ‘The Lotus Gun’ Director Interview

‘The Lotus Gun’ is a critically acclaimed short, independent student film co-written and directed by Amanda Milius. The film is a beautifully rendered post-apocalyptic story with a Western aesthetic that features a queer relationship between its two female leads.

Written by Amanda Rodriguez.

The Lotus Gun is a critically acclaimed short, independent student film co-written and directed by Amanda Milius. The film is a beautifully rendered post-apocalyptic story with a Western aesthetic that features a queer relationship between its two female leads. Set in a future of wide open spaces, The Lotus Gun is a survivor story about Nora (Lauren Avery), its laconic, independent lead, who escaped from a drug cult and a life of sex slavery.

The cinematography of this film is breathtaking, conveying more about a world long gone to seed than any exposition or carefully placed ruins possibly could. The Lotus Gun critiques collectivism, favoring instead an individualistic approach popular in the Western genre. Here the communal, sharing societies are actually patriarchal, and they commodify women, engaging in sex trafficking and sexual slavery. It is then not surprising that naive Daphine (Dasha Nekrasova), Nora’s partner, is fascinated by a young man who wanders onto their property, while Nora plans to kill him, knowing the threat he poses.

Enter The Lotus Gun.

Guns are often a key feature of the the Western genre, and the relationship between the old West protagonist and his (usually) gun is often a love story. Here, guns are so scarce that few have ever seen them, so the gun itself is a phallic relic. Interestingly, Nora, a woman, is presumably the only person left who has one.

The Lotus Gun is an engaging film with arresting imagery and a plot that took me to surprising places. I look forward to seeing newcomer Amanda Milius’ next projects. My only critique is that the two female leads, being thin, white, blonde women, are not as unique as the story itself. I did, however, appreciate how dirty they were, their skin covered in blemishes and bruises, their clothes ripped and dusty.

I had the privilege of interviewing talented writer and director Amanda Milius.

Bitch Flicks: What made you choose to make this film?

Amanda Milius: I have always been drawn to the things people do when there’s no law around, so in pre- or post- current versions of society or civilization. I had both smaller and larger versions of this particular story I’d had for a while, and at school we got to do these sort of smaller 5-minute films throughout the program. So I explored different aspects of the kinds of people and stories I like, and I just wanted an opportunity to get one fully realized thought out. It happens to be 25 minutes long, which I certainly heard no end about from everyone I know… But I’m glad it is what it is because it wasn’t meant to be 12 minutes long.

I like the idea of these two very different kinds of women and how differently they react to the world and how their basic personality makeups create a conflict just out of that. Nora sees the world as an inherently bad place and Daph feels the opposite. I also just wanted to express my particular style and aesthetic and really have a story where that could be featured… I definitely didn’t want to do anything indoors; I really like people having to survive in nature. I had a very particular visual style I wanted and I used to be a photographer for fashion and music magazines so I’ve had time to sort out the style I like and I wanted a moment to showcase that.

Thankfully, I found a really great team of people who also got it and really expanded on it. Sean Bagley, the director of photography (DP), is just as much a part of it, same with the costume designer Adam Alonso, and the production designers Marcelo Dolce and Katie Pyne — everyone really got it and so it comes together in a very good way, thankfully.

BF: Why do you feel this is an important story to tell?

AM: Because even though society does exist and keeps us safe, there are things we take for granted as reality when they are only just imposed on us from society. So how real are they? How is equality between people maintained? How do the weak stand up to the strong or groups of people when they are outnumbered? I maybe have more of Nora’s point of view of the world: I don’t think people will act the way they do now when civilization is gone, and so then how will people decide what’s right and wrong? What kind of women will survive and how? How will men and women interact? I think it’s important now. I think it’s a good thing to figure out what your values are as an independent person with an independent morality.

At the end of the day, it’s a movie about loyalty and relationships. In two-person relationships, there’s always a power dynamic, which isn’t bad, but it exists. I wanted to deal with ideas about “possessiveness” and ownership and freedom within relationships. Dash splits because she maybe thinks she will find freedom elsewhere. And in this particular world and situation, she finds out she was free before. Nora already knows this, so the way she deals with the betrayal is interesting… how she really does kind of treat Daph as a pet, like she doesn’t know any better. But she saves her and that’s what matters, she still makes sure she has a life. The idea was not that how all these people act is necessarily what I or we would think is correct or right, but in this world it’s what happens.

BF: Why did you choose to make your film a Western?

AM: Technically it’s not a western because it doesn’t take place in the Old West but it is a variation. I chose to place it in a broken down world after civilization for the reasons I mentioned above but I also really like Westerns and the things about people you can explore in those kinds of stories: what people get up to when there’s no real law around, when it’s just people deciding for themselves how to live and what’s right and wrong. I also really like how Nora is basically Clint Eastwood combined with my friend Jennifer Herrema (singer from 90s indie band Royal Trux); there’s no better character than that for me! It’s cool having her be strong in a sort of reserved, silent, resolved, and complicated way. A lot of the “strong” women in films these days, which seems to be the new thing, they are so annoying. I’m not saying people shouldn’t try to have more of those characters, but I haven’t seen one I really liked since Alien or Terminator, which is funny because no one was trying so hard then to make great female characters. That’s probably why there’s not a lot of them, but those two are such great examples and no one notices. Now they have the girls always doing kung fu or something; it’s so awful.

BF: Could you talk about your choice to make the women a couple in the film?

AM: I liked the idea of this sort of sensual relationship in a Blue Lagoon kind of way between the women in their undisturbed environment and how that gets disrupted and altered when the new element shows up.

Basically, they are a couple but that could be seen as being by default, as they are the only two people out there for years together… the idea was that it was a vague kind of non-defined thing where they were best friends and family and probably lovers in this kind of survivalist, futuristic way. When Mike shows up, it can be questioned whether or not Daph is necessarily gay exactly or if she wavers between attraction to the competing personalities in front of her at that moment. He is new, so is it the newness and strangeness that she’s attracted to, or the fact that he’s a guy? I wanted the girls’ relationship to be almost transcendent of a distinct type of relationship; they are every relationship to each other in a way.

BF: Could you tell us about the significance of the gun (the Lotus Gun) in your film and why you chose it?

AM: The gun itself is kind of like an Excalibur thing, since there’s none around… the idea is both guns and women are rare and therefore of value in this world. But the way they are ‘”valued” is as objects, commodities, things you need to stay alive. The gun is special because the backstory (which you’ll see if I ever get to make the feature or serialized version of this!) is that Dennis, the commune / cult leader, collects artifacts from the past civilization, and this gun is a particular rarity. He had it for some time, and during that time, he had his guys engrave over the original engraving to represent his world. Shotguns like that usually have ducks or dogs or other kinds of hunting imagery on them, really beautiful actually. A lot of those guns have some really amazing art on them. Anyway, so he has this guy crudely engrave his snake image and the Datura flowers they use in their drug ceremonies and weed leaves. Which alone is a cool idea, a shotgun engraved with hippie iconography is so cool. So that’s how it becomes the “Lotus Gun” and it has a sort of mythology pop up around it in this world when it supposedly disappears. When Nora digs it up, it’s a whole new world for her. She has something no one else has, and it’s almost like it was meant for her. No one else ever shot it that we know of, so it’s like Excalibur in that the gun was always waiting for her because she’s the rightful owner of it. Now there is a different balance of power that didn’t exist before.

BF: Could you share a bit about your experiences as a female film writer and director?

AM: I don’t really think about it much, so I can just say that being a writer and a director is great because as of yet, no one has ever taken one of my stories and ruined them, as I’m told will happen when someone finally buys a script from me! I know what you mean though. So far, I guess I’ve been very lucky to work with some very cool people because I hear there are difficult situations for women in this field, but I’ve really loved working with everyone I’ve worked with. I know there are definitely people out there who think maybe someone doesn’t know what they are talking about because they’re female or something, but I just wouldn’t be around that. As a director, for sure I wouldn’t tolerate it, so I just don’t think it would ever get to that. Because that kind of person wouldn’t even be around me anyway. Plus, I made this movie in school, so I had the ability to work with my best friends. Maybe I’ll have more to say on it as I progress through the profession.

I think women in this industry should remember that there are lots of different kinds of women and to not hold us to some idea about ourselves, because it will limit us. We ourselves need to be supportive of other women in a real way, which means supporting all different kinds of films and people. Not box ourselves into one way of thinking. I think women’s film festivals are a great idea because they show that women make very different kinds of films and can excel across all genres. At first, I wasn’t sure about the idea of separating films out based on the gender of the director, but actually I think they make an interesting statement that’s important.

Bitch Flicks writer and editor Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.

Domesticating the Old West: Feminism and ‘The Harvey Girls’

In a world commonly presented as male dominated, ‘The Harvey Girls’ gives us a portrait of the Old West corralled by women; where women aren’t roped into marriage, take on male-centric jobs, run restaurants, and become friendly with their enemies. Though the 1940s Hollywood veneer of breeziness remains, ‘The Harvey Girls’ uses its flippant presentation to give a deeply feminist examination of how women worked and struggled to carve out a piece of the West on their own terms.

This is a guest post written by Kristen Lopez.

If history and Hollywood have taught us anything it is that the West was conquered by courageous cowboys on horseback who beat the “savages” out of the hills in a bid for MAN-ifest Destiny. This point has been reiterated endlessly by American cinema who put manly men like John Wayne, Randolph Scott, and Errol Flynn in the saddle and told audiences women-folk were there for local color or nursing but, no matter what, were always kept out of site. In this brave new world women are simply passengers… or are they?

Best known for directing bubblegum teen fare like Bye Bye Birdie (1963) and Viva Las Vegas (1964), director George Sidney and a crew of at least six credited writers crafted a feminist look at the old West in 1946 with The Harvey Girls, a tale of women, both good and bad, that extends beyond trite definitions and turns into a poignant musical of female friendship, uncompromising personalities, and a world where men get in the way of progress.

Set in the 1890s, the “Harvey Girls” of the title are waitresses at a burgeoning restaurant chain popping up along the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe train route. The selected girls are all meant to espouse “clean living,” displaying a patch of innocence in the rambunctious West. Heading to the small town of Sandrock are a new crop of waitresses, and Susan Bradley (Judy Garland), a young woman who’s answered a “lonely hearts” ad and hopes to marry her unseen lover in town.

The film immediately presents us with a group of women setting out to create their own futures. The Harvey Girls themselves seek nothing more than a job and a means of seeing the world, many leaving towns where they were told their looks are their only worth and marriage is their end goal.

The town of Sandrock is presented as a stereotypical lawless society where the men control commerce, religion, and safety. Yet their control is little more than a façade for their licentiousness. The town hasn’t progressed short of creating a saloon, and the men in charge are seemingly content with a world of duels, gunfights, and general primitivism. It isn’t until the Harvey restaurant opens that a semblance of domesticity arrives.

However, the term domesticity isn’t derogatorily applied here. Because the women aren’t on the hunt for men, their presence brings with it progress; the local priest believes he can reopen the church, the saloon is shown for the money trap that it is, etc. Women are even presented in male centric jobs; Alma from Ohio (Virignia O’Brien) shows her flair at shoeing horses better than the man in the position, singing and dancing while doing it. Even the Harvey House, with its male identification in the title, is saved through Susan’s dominance — and six guns – as she gets back the restaurant’s stolen meat on opening day.

Ned Trent (John Hodiak), the local saloon owner, starts out as a mild-mannered villain, but becomes an ally to Susan and the women in the Harvey House. Even then, though, his role is limited to shooting snakes and flashing muscle. It is the women’s ingenuity and interest in his proffered help that brings him into the fold; Trent is a man controlled, not the ruler.

It is within the saloon that The Harvey Girls’ true feministic impulses present themselves. The clean-cut Harvey Girls, with Susan as their leader, are contrasted with the garish, sexualized saloon girls led by Em (Angela Lansbury). Though Em and Susan are both in love with Ned, it is only a surface issue since Em refuses to compromise her ideals to attract Ned. Instead, she simply reiterates to Susan that Ned doesn’t love her.

The male-centric audience are presented with the Madonna and the whore through Susan and Em, but the focal point is firmly on both women’s presentation of their desires, personalities, and dreams in life. Em understands the simplistic men in Sandrock see the Harvey Girls as clean and pure, but Em and her girls are never presented as immoral as the men in the town. The audience, and the men, are tame in their lust for Em and her ladies – and there’s no implication of prostitution outside of imagination – but it is evident Susan and the other Harvey ladies represent clean living. Short of their wardrobes – the loud, thigh revealing costumes of the saloon versus the floor-length, black and white dresses of the Harvey House – the audience is left to interpret and give Em and her ladies a darker past than they actually have.

This all comes to the fore in the film’s climax. Em and her ladies decide to blitz out for greener pastures, leaving Sandrock and its newly staid atmosphere to the Harvey House. The women aren’t run out on a rail, but it is obvious Em fancies herself bigger than the small confines of Sandrock and her financial livelihood is at stake with the conversion of the saloon. Em is still allowed to have her dreams and pursue them without a man by her side. In fact, it is Em who, despite the fights and pettiness between both women, tells Susan that Ned adores her (Susan).

This moment is a breakthrough, particularly for a film mired in post-WWII images of Rosie the Riveter. Em, a character who has done little good in the movie, is allowed to have a moment of support and friendship with a female rival, a rival for a man no less. Em doesn’t end the movie with a newfound change of heart or a renunciation of her wicked ways. In fact, we’re given a glimpse into Em’s personality that the town of Sandrock and its male dominated chauvinism, has forced Em to hide. Though Susan is the film’s heroine, it is Em who is the truly fascinating character within The Harvey Girls; a woman with aspirations and flaws who still succeeds on her own terms and isn’t condemned by others, but, in fact, helps those different from her (like Susan) find their way.

Em and all the women in The Harvey Girls are not dragged into marriage. Marriage is joked about — “I sent my picture into one of those Lonely Hearts Clubs and they sent it back, saying, ‘We’re not THAT lonely” — but never stated as awaiting them at the train station. If anything, the men of Sandrock anticipate the women’s arrival with their own matrimonial intentions.

Upon arrival, Susan meets her intended, H.H. Hartsey (Chill Wills), only to discover he’s an “old coot.” Where the marriage plot usually becomes the climax, here it is the catalyst for Susan’s self-discovery. H.H. is a decent man living in an immoral town and is unwilling to marry Susan despite her beauty because the two aren’t compatible. Hartsey is the stereotypical cowboy, grizzled with an “aw, shucks” attitude shown for what it is, sweet but unattractive. We’re presented with the non-John Wayne version of the cowboy. The cowboys that existed, but weren’t Hollywood leading men. Though both characters are polite, it’s evident Sandrock isn’t interested in being a fantasy town, and both characters realize they’re unsuited for each other.

Coupled with the women’s seeming disinterest in it, marriage in The Harvey Girls is never brought up again within this context. Characters fall in love, but it’s never stated they’ll put a ring on it or that they’ll stay together past the end credits, though it is heavily implied due to its Hollywood tone. Marriage is presented as an open door, allowing Susan to become a Harvey Girl and gain her independence.

In a world commonly presented as male dominated, The Harvey Girls gives us a portrait of the Old West corralled by women; where women aren’t roped into marriage, take on male-centric jobs, run restaurants, and become friendly with their enemies. Though the 1940s Hollywood veneer of breeziness remains, The Harvey Girls uses its flippant presentation to give a deeply feminist examination of how women worked and struggled to carve out a piece of the West on their own terms.

Kristen Lopez is a freelance writer whose work has appeared on Film School Rejects, The Playlist, Awards Circuit, and Cinema Sentries. She is currently the Associate Editor at ClassicFlix and the owner of the classic film site, Journeys in Classic Film.

Let’s All Calm Down for a Minute About ‘The Hateful Eight’: Analyzing the Leading Lady of a Modern Western

In an action movie, violence is due to befall all characters. Is violence against any female character inherently woman-hating, inherently misogynist? … It’s possible that subconscious sexism makes people quick to see her as a victim, and then criticism of the trope of women as victims may be getting in the way of seeing the agency and complexity of a character like Daisy Domergue.

This guest post is written by Sophie Besl.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape, sexual assault and graphic violence] | Spoilers ahead.

When the only female character in Quentin Tarantino’s new film, The Hateful Eight, appeared on promotional materials, and eventually onscreen, with a black eye and chained to a male character, the hair on everyone’s backs was already up. A Tarantino fan and writer I admire went so far as to post on Facebook, “…What I saw tonight in 70 millimeter was a woman-hating piece of trash.”

In this analysis, I ask viewers and readers to take a new perspective. In an action movie, violence is due to befall all characters. Is violence against any female character inherently woman-hating, inherently misogynist?

The Hateful Eight Is a Western.
This male-centric genre, like many others, is guilty of shackling a limited number of women into stereotypical roles such as: a) emotional, submissive frontier wives completely at the mercy of men’s decisions, b) hyper-sexualized sex workers, or c) exoticized depictions of Native and Indigenous women. Of course, there are still standout roles for women (Madeline Kahn in Blazing Saddles, Katharine Ross in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the role of Mattie in True Grit), but these roles are difficult to etch out. I would like to submit that Daisy Domergue, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, is one of these strong roles. Tarantino gets as close as he can to putting a woman in a leading role (which he has shown is his preference in Jackie Brown, Kill Bill, Death Proof, and Inglourious Basterds).

The primary message of The Hateful Eight is about the Civil War and what it meant for America and the men, white and Black, who fought it. Thus, the main characters fought in the war. While a small number of women disguised themselves as men and fought, the overwhelming majority of veterans were men. So since the main characters had to be veterans, these were male, but Tarantino made the “next available” lead character female. Domergue is essentially the third lead, the highest level available that is historically accurate for a woman, given Tarantino’s primary goal exploring race relations (her Golden Globe nomination is for supporting actor, but it’s okay, those decisions are not a science!).

Play the Movie in Your Mind with a Male Actor in the Role.
In my opinion, one test of whether a character is feminist or not is if you ask, “Does this character’s gender play any part in the character’s actions, fate, or treatment?” If the answer is “no” or “not really, not essentially,” then that is a very feminist character. Insert a male actor in place of Jennifer Jason Leigh. Think about it — the plot would play out exactly the same. Not only that, but almost no lines of dialogue would need to be changed. “This woman” would be replaced with “this man,” “sister” with “brother,” etc. The only outlier is the dreaded “b” word, but Tarantino has plenty of colorful insults for all manner of characters.

Domergue Is Never Viewed in a Sexual or Objectifying Way.
This is rooted one of my favorite things about Tarantino as a filmmaker. In a world riddled with rape, the last thing we need is gratuitous, titillating visuals, filmed from a male point of view, of sexual violence against women.¹ The closest Tarantino ever comes to this is with the Bride² — but the sexual violence is implied not shown³ — and Death Proof, where the revenge equally or far outweighs the initial gender-based homicide. On the flip side, Tarantino has no problem showing rape and sexual assault against men onscreen, such as in Pulp Fiction and The Hateful Eight.

Shosanna in Inglourious Basterds is one of the best examples of Tarantino writing for women as if they do not live in danger of sexual violence from men. This suspension of disbelief onscreen is refreshing and empowering for viewers, such as me as a woman who does somewhat live in daily fear of sexual violence. Shosanna repeatedly, assertively turns down advances from Zoller quite at her own peril throughout the entire film. Her fearlessness is astounding, and respected. Here are the ways that Domergue is written in similarly feminist ways:

[Spoilers follow.]
• She is walked into a log cabin in the middle-of-nowhere Wyoming to spend the night with 9 or 10 men, one of whom she is chained to, and it never seems to the viewer that she might be in danger, of sexual violence or even significant other harm.
• There is no implication that her captor has raped or sexually assaulted her.
• Her looks are never commented upon, neither that she is pretty nor looking haggard. The comment-ability of her appearance intensifies over time based on the chaos that occurs inside the cabin, yet no one comments. This is impossibly refreshing and almost unheard of for women in film. Even the looks of the strongest women characters in other Westerns are usually remarked upon or up for discussion among the men.
• Domergue is not a love interest of any of the characters.*
• Men are willing to risk their lives to save Domergue due to familial or gang ties, not out of love, affection, or sexually driven motives.*
• The camera never rests on her in an objectifying or gazing way that is different than the other characters or unique to her as a woman.

*Note: Major Marquis Warren does imply this in one line of dialogue, but it is quickly dismissed. Compared to most films where men only act out of love for women and sex is a major motivator, this is still a major step in terms of feminist film.

Okay Yes, We’ll Talk about the Violence.
I’m no fool — I’m not going to pretend that it’s all butterflies and rainbows for Domergue in The Hateful Eight. As Leigh told The Daily Beast, she took a photo of herself and sent it to her mom when her only makeup was a black eye and a few scratches and bruises and said, “This is as good as it’s going to get. This is the beauty shot from the movie. … Then it just got more and more insane as it goes on.”

My initial question was: Is any violence against a woman inherently misogynist? Leigh said in an interview:

“I think it’s actually more of a sexist response [to say that]… I think it’s easy to have a sexist response. ‘Hitting a woman? Sexist.’ It’s a natural go-to place for people. But [Tarantino]’s actually taking the sexism out of it.”

Another argument about the violence is that Domergue has almost full agency over it. She has been arrested by an officer of the court, and he has made it clear what the consequences are for what actions. She purposely violates his rules, knowing what the consequences will be, and chooses the risks of receiving an elbow to the face for getting in some fantastic jabs at Kurt Russell’s character John Ruth, such as that his intelligence may have suffered from taking a high dive into a low well.

Also, while many would argue that Domergue gets the worst of the violence, mostly marked by her lack of wiping blood off of her face, it should be noted that part of the lead protagonist Major Warren’s genitals are separated from his body by a gunshot wound, an injury he viscerally suffers from until the end of the movie, so it’s not like Tarantino spares his lead male actors.

She Kills Her Captor.
While: a) being chained to Ruth, b) Ruth is poisoned and thus vomiting on her, and c) Ruth is still managing to beat her up, Domergue manages to grab his gun and blow him away. Any one of the “hateful eight” could have easily killed Ruth plot-wise, but Tarantino gives this murder to Domergue, who deserves it and has truly earned it. (Note: She also deftly and matter-of-factly saws his arm — which she’s still handcuffed to — off of his corpse to facilitate her mobility later that night.)

The Fates of Four Men Rest on Her in the End.
Speaking of her being a total badass, after Jody’s murder, she goes from being the #2 to the #1 leader of one of the most dangerous gangs in the land. In the final act of the film, she just about single-handedly negotiates the lives (and deaths) of the two protagonists and her two remaining gang members. She is unarmed, and yet commands full power over the four men’s actions and decisions until the very last moment. Her brilliance —“She’s very, very smart,” Leigh tells The Daily Beast — causes her to outshine all of the other characters and almost “win.” “…She’s a leader. And she’s tough. And she’s hateful and a survivor and scrappy,” says Leigh in an interview with Variety, all traits that give Domergue power in the frenetic, desperate situation in which all the characters find themselves.

The Death Scene.
This is arguably the most problematic scene of all. Let’s present what I’m up against before I present my counterpoint. Matt Zoller Seitz at RogerEbert.com writes:

“The film’s relentless and often comical violence against Daisy never feels truly earned. Saying, ‘Well, they’re all outlaws, including her, and that’s just how women were treated back then’ feels like an awfully thin defense when you hear audiences whooping it up each time Russell punches Leigh in the face, and it dissipates during the final scene, which lingers on Daisy’s death with near-pornographic fascination. In a movie filled with selfish, deceptive and murderous characters, hers is the only demise that is not just observed, but celebrated.”

Well this is where I’m going to go way out on a limb and repeat what Leigh herself (the woman who had to sit around in 30 degrees in the fake blood and brains, and pretend to be hung) said, “I think it’s actually more of a sexist response [to say that].” Why is watching a villain get what’s coming to her “near-pornographic fascination?” There’s nothing sexual about the act of killing her, or its filming/gaze. Also, after her death, her body is sometimes held in the same shot with the two protagonists, as if her character still lives on in a way.

• Did this reviewer feel the same way when Tarantino’s three protagonists were kicking the living bejesus out of Russell’s character in Death Proof?
• What about when Elle is sitting over Bud’s snake-poison-filled body in Kill Bill Vol. 2 and calmly reading to him? If anything, that is more tortuous and sick, plus the camera is looking up at Elle (murderer) and down at Bud (victim). These camera angles are reversed in Domergue’s murder, with an upward shot on her and downward at the murderers.
• If I recall correctly, the audience also “whooped it up” each time significant discomfort befell almost any of the characters: O.B. getting really cold, Ruth and O.B. throwing up from poison, Mannix getting shot and passing out, etc.
• If I recall correctly, the audience pretty clearly celebrated or enjoyed the shorter-in-duration but also gristly murders of Bob and Jody. This violence was also slated as comical.
• Maybe I was the only sick person in the theater, but I also found it pretty enjoyable and hilarious that Tim Roth’s character didn’t die right away, and he was crawling around in the background while a bunch of other stuff was going on, with no one paying him any mind.
• May I take a moment to reiterate the violence to Major Warren’s genitals? This was extremely comical to the audience — why is his violence earned but hers is not?
• There are only a few murders in the film that are decidedly not celebrated and those are of three women (and two men, one of whom is an older man in his 70s).

I see the temptation to look at what happens to Daisy Domergue on-screen and denounce, “You sexist, you’re destroying a woman, how misogynist!” I even did it for moments myself. However, I encourage everyone to move past this knee-jerk reaction. It’s possible that subconscious sexism makes people quick to see her as a victim, and then criticism of the trope of women as victims may be getting in the way of seeing the agency and complexity of a character like Domergue. I’d rather we not take this as an opportunity to put down Tarantino, but as an opportunity to celebrate Leigh’s nuanced and powerful performance – she even took time to learn to play guitar to perform a song in the film — as film critics are doing this awards season.

I’ll close with a quote from Tarantino:

“Violence is hanging over every one of those characters like a cloak of night. So I’m not going to go, ‘OK, that’s the case for seven of the characters, but because one is a woman, I have to treat her differently.’ I’m not going to do that.”

Notes:

[1] See my view on the only acceptable treatment of sexual violence in film in “I’ll Make You Feel Like You’ve Never Felt Before”: Jennifer’s Power in I Spit on Your Grave

[2] See a thoughtful exploration of the Bride’s rape revenge in Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Not at All?. I agree with Rodriguez’s interpretation that Buck is “at the bottom of the barrel” as the first to die, but I disagree that Tarantino sees this is a means of empowerment that enables her to find liberation. I see it as another brutalization by Bill (indirectly) that further justifies her revenge. The Bride’s revenge against Bill feels very “tit for tat” in the way historically all-male cast movies are written, yet by working in the rape and the losing of her baby, he makes them more true to the realities of what a female character would face (again without showing sexual violence). Writing a female character with completely equal respect as a male character, yet with these realistic modifications based on gender, is the most feminist thing I can imagine.

[3] This argument of “implied not shown” was used to justify a reason why Mad Max: Fury Road is a feminist film.

Sophie Besl is an exploitation film fanatic with a day job in nonprofit marketing. She has a Bachelor’s from Harvard and lives in Boston with three small dogs. She tweets at @rockyc5.

‘True Grit’: Ambiguous Feminism

Mattie wears dark, loose, practical clothing. She climbs trees and carries weapons. She shows utter disdain for male privilege or La Boeuf’s pervy allusions to sexual contact. She has no interest in the older men for romance or protection. She is only concerned with their usefulness to her task, and she uses her will and her reasoning rather than seduction to convince them. Steinfeld’s Mattie emanates competence and confidence.

This cross-post by Andé Morgan previously appeared at her blog No Accommodation and appears as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.

Enter the Wayback Machine in your mind and go back to 2011. This was an era with only one Smurfs and only two Hangovers. More original fare like Rango and Super 8 was somewhat overshadowed by superhero movies, which were HUGE, and the sequelmatic masterpieces that were Transformers: Dark of the Moon and Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. That’s OK, originality is overrated. For example, my favorite wide release of late 2010-early 2011 was True Grit. Based on the 1968 serial novel by Charles Portis, True Grit the movie had been done by The Duke in 1969. And by done I mean it did well; it was a financial and critical success and gave John Wayne his only Oscar. Nevermind that the script was less than faithful to the source material, or that Mammon possessed Paramount to spawn a horrific sequel, Rooster Cogburn.

Let me get my bias out front: I am a fan of the Coen Brothers, but I don’t always drink the Kool-Aid (am I the only person who thought Fargo and No Country for Old Men were just OK?). However, I loved True Grit. I don’t think it is hyperbole to call it a masterpiece. It represents an increasingly rare combination of excellent screenwriting, gripping cinematography, high production value, and masterful acting in a wide release film. Its story of vengeance is timeless, but the setting is as uniquely American as apple pie, Duck Dynasty, and gun violence.

To summarize: in the American Old West (Oklahoma and Arkansas were part of the Old West in 1877), Mattie Ross (played by Hailee Steinfeld in the 2010 film) loses her father when he is murdered by his hired hand Tom Chaney (Josh Brolin). She enlists the help of U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) and Texas Ranger La Boeuf (Matt Damon) to bring the fugitive Chaney to justice. Because she is an adolescent female, no one takes her seriously until the strength of her persistence wins out. Vengeance is hers in the end, but not without cost.

All of the incarnations of True Grit are popular fodder for analysis from a feminist perspective not only because it is well-known and well-respected as an “American” story, but also because it is an unusual story. It features a young, female protagonist with a single-minded focus on violent vengeance. Any analysis would be remiss to ignore that a) the serial was written in 1968, and Portis would undoubtedly be aware of the second-wave feminist movement and b) the 2010 film was written, directed, and produced by the Coen Brothers, who know how to do subtle development of nuanced characters and big-picture themes. The original 1969 film is less profitable for analysis. In their hurry to cash in on the popularity of the novel and John Wayne, the studio focused on the Rooster character. Mattie (referred to as a “tomboy” by promotional materials of the time) exists as a novelty and a variation on the damsel in distress.

While the 2010 film does pass the Bechdel Test on the slightest of technicalities, no one is going to confuse it with Melancholia. The plot of True Grit is an interesting variation of the Women in Fridges meme because the roles are a reversal of the usual young female victim and older male protagonist structure. In this way Mattie is much more of a Dark Knight than a Marvelous fighting fuck toy. The overarching patriarchal heterosexist concern is obvious: neither children nor women are allowed to crave bloody vengeance. Vengeance is a privilege reserved for good-but-violent men whose women-property are raped or destroyed.

Mattie wears dark, loose, practical clothing. She climbs trees and carries weapons. She shows utter disdain for male privilege or La Boeuf’s pervy allusions to sexual contact. She has no interest in the older men for romance or protection. She is only concerned with their usefulness to her task, and she uses her will and her reasoning rather than seduction to convince them. Steinfeld’s Mattie emanates competence and confidence.

While many in the blogosphere were quick to use Mattie’s stoicism, blood lust, and independence as examples of why True Grit should be considered a feminist movie, others, such as Anita Sarkeesian at Feminist Frequency, have remarked that those same attributes argue against that designation. Rather, the adoption of these characteristics by a female protagonist constitutes an enshrinement of male privilege and traditional action-movie-masculine vales rather than an assertion of feminist values. By contrast, a feminist True Grit would emphasize cooperation, empathy, and non-violent conflict resolution. Without delving into the deeper arguments raised by this argument (e.g., what exactly are feminist values and are they necessarily exclusive of all traditionally masculine values), I can say that my initial reaction was to agree with Sarkeesian. Too often we see action movies that “counterbalance” a “masculine” (and usually secondary) female character by either putting her in a skin-tight suit, giving her a fatal personality flaw, or by implying that she is worthy of death for her perceived masculinity (I’m looking at you, Kick-Ass 2).

However, after some reflection I tend to agree more with Amanda Marcotte’s argument that True Grit should not be analyzed in the same way as more typical westerns or action movies. The subtleties in the source material and in the Coen Brothers’ delivery lend themselves to deeper interpretation. True Grit comments on many things: the unfair treatment of Native Americans (the hanging scene); the corruption of justice in our legal system (the courtroom scene); and the fact that there is often very little space between the “bad” and the “good” in this world (Chaney’s dialogue with Mattie at the creek and mine; Ned’s dialogue with Rooster).

As Marcotte points out, to understand the commentary on the development of Mattie as a young woman, we must look to the ending. Marcotte notes the shared symbology of Rooster’s missing eye and (adult) Mattie’s missing arm. By engaging in violence and by accepting the traditionally masculine values of vengeance, both Mattie and Rooster literally and figuratively lost part of themselves. As viewers, we are left to wonder: did Mattie’s consumption by vengeance as a young woman rob her of spiritual wholeness in adulthood? Does the adult Mattie feel that she was wrong to pursue vengeance? I do disagree with Marcotte’s assertion that True Grit is a feminist movie because the bleakness of the ending serves as an ultimate repudiation of traditional action-movie-masculine values. Instead, I see the ending as commentary on the infectious, long-lasting, and ultimately detrimental nature of violence as a human trait. Consequently, I conclude that while Mattie Ross may be considered a feminist character (loosely) True Grit is neither a feminist movie nor a movie that reinforces the patriarchal heterosexist narrative. It is a human condition movie, and one worth watching.

As for Hallie Steinfeld, she’s been getting work, and recently played Petra Arkanin in the film adaption of Ender’s Game. I’d like to see it, but damn you Orson Scott Card!

Andé Morgan’s perspective stems from a life spent always on the boundary: white and black, rich and poor, masculine and feminine. She takes shelter under the transgender umbrella.

Ripley’s Pick: Meek’s Cutoff

Meek’s Cutoff (2010)

Meek’s Cutoff is the kind of quiet movie that doesn’t get a lot of attention–or box office dollars–but should.

Set in 1845 on the Oregon Trail (insert obligatory joke about the Oregon Trail computer game), three families make their way west with the help of Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood), but soon realize that his ‘shortcut’ has left them lost and quickly running out of water. When they encounter and capture a Native American man, they ultimately decide that he must know the land better, and they choose him to lead them, despite political differences they perceive as “natural” and a language barrier. Whether he will lead them to water or to destruction is the question.

When I say quiet, I mean it. More than seven minutes pass before a word is uttered, during which time we see the families cross a deep river, one of the women holding a bright little caged canary aloft, and one of the men scratch the word LOST into a fallen tree. No words need to be spoken to read the situation these settlers find themselves in, and when words are finally spoken, they come from a child reading from the Bible.

The poster above connects Meek’s Cutoff with another contemporary (although it is a remake) Western– True Grit. While the films share female characters as the ones with the real grit, I’m actually reminded more of There Will Be Blood, in terms of tone and subject (more on this later). I wrote about Meek’s Cutoff when it was opening in theatres, and said the following about Westerns:

The Western genre is traditionally tied up in all kinds of rugged masculinity, and of all film genres, maybe best exemplifies the dominant way the United States collectively imagines itself: sturdy, adventurous, self sufficient, brave, and, well, pretty butch. The problem is, however, that this narrative leaves out a significant number of people, and a significant portion of the story. The Western (and the story of the U.S. West) tries to be the story of the United States itself, and reveals ideology so clearly where it fails–namely, in its depiction of women, indigenous peoples, immigrants, and African-Americans. The genre is, in other words, ripe for retellings and allegory.

Rugged masculinity is not lauded in Meek’s Cutoff, but depicted as dangerous and violent. Meek is not trustworthy, and is not even the central character in this Western. The quiet power here lies in the women, who are often depicted working–collecting firewood, washing, walking alongside the wagons–and discussing their situation, relying less than the men on divine providence and the violent tales of vicious Indians from a rebel cowboy. Emily (Michelle Williams) is the boldest of the women, though Millie and Glory (who is very pregnant) show strength and critical thought about their situation. While ideas about race and gender roles fit squarely in the 19th century (the women don’t even ask to vote when the men are choosing their path, and are quick and easy with racial epithets), the critique of the American mythos rings clearly.

In her review of There Will Be Blood for this site, Lesley Jenike succinctly explains the dominance of white men in Serious, Important Films made in the U.S.:

If we consider some of our American cinematic “masterpieces,” we often find them absent vibrant female characters, for example (think The Godfather, Citizen Kane, and Chinatown to name just three). As much as I desperately want to see my gender portrayed with respect, honesty, and integrity, many films that deal with the great American mythos don’t have much room for female characters, simply because women haven’t been a part of, and are often still excluded from, the creation story we tell ourselves—a story of brutal boots-on-the-ground capitalism and, negatively speaking, punishing exploitation. It’s a Judeo-Christian story in which the individual male forges his path through the wilderness, an anti-hero who, despite his great wealth and power, can’t overcome his subsequent moral corruption. What’s important to recognize is that the marked absence of “the other” in these films is a comment on an institutionalized patriarchy that extends beyond our everyday interactions to the very heart of our cultural mythos. There Will Be Blood is yet another film that further cements a white male-dominated American story of origin.

Meek’s Cutoff, directed by Kelly Reichardt (Old Joy, Wendy & Lucy), explores the great American mythos without telling a story centered on a male protagonist. Families that went west were just that–families, consisting of men, women, and children. It’s possible to comment on institutionalized patriarchy and the American story of origin without entirely excluding women or revising history to make it less ugly, less cruel, or more inclusive. Women are part of the story, and maybe it takes more women to step up and tell the stories, lest we be excised completely.

There is much to say about this film, which is visually gorgeous and tense enough to keep you on the edge of your seat, but rather than go into intricate analyses of the imagery and possible political interpretations, I’m going to just recommend you rent (or buy) the film and do your own analysis.

Have you seen Meek’s Cutoff? If so, what did you think?

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

The Jury Awards – International Women’s Film Festival 2011 from Women and Hollywood

A Black Woman’s Plea for Justified – The Red-State Western You Should Be Watching from Racialicious

Redefining Dora: From Explorer to Princess from Marinagraphy

Meek’s Cutoff: Professor Kelly Reichardt’s Filmmaking 101 Primer from Thompson on Hollywood

Tropes vs. Women #3: The Smurfette Principle from Feminist Frequency

Arianna Huffington is a sex symbol from Feministe

Slutwalks and the New Political Incorrectness from Slate XX Factor

Leave your links in the comments!

Preview: Meek’s Cutoff – A Feminist Western?

Shirley Henderson, Zoe Kazan, and Michelle Williams star in Meek’s Cutoff

I’ve never really talked about my love for Westerns here, or all of my jumbled ideas about the genre and feminism (someday I’ll write a long post about it, or an essay, or a book). But, let me try to (briefly) sum up my interest here, and express how excited I am about Meek’s Cutoff.

The Western genre is traditionally tied up in all kinds of rugged masculinity, and of all film genres, maybe best exemplifies the dominant way the United States collectively imagines itself: sturdy, adventurous, self sufficient, brave, and, well, pretty butch. The problem is, however, that this narrative leaves out a significant number of people, and a significant portion of the story. The Western (and the story of the U.S. West) tries to be the story of the United States itself, and reveals ideology so clearly where it fails–namely, in its depiction of women, indigenous peoples, immigrants, and African-Americans. The genre is, in other words, ripe for retellings and allegory.

Directed by Kelly Reichardt (who also directed Wendy and Lucy and Old Joy), Meek’s Cutoff opens this weekend in New York, followed by a limited-release roll out. The critical consensus is positive, and Reichardt is already being praised for making an artistic and accessible film. Not-so-subtle connections are also being made between the film’s title character and a certain former U.S. president who may have also been overconfident in his ability to lead.

Mahohla Dargis has called the film “unabashedly political,” and J. Hoberman of The Village Voice, writes

Having split off from a larger wagon train, the party elected to follow Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood), an extravagantly hirsute, self-regardingly loquacious guide who, in his most obvious misjudgment, brings them not to the foothills of the Cascade Mountains but the shores of a great saline lake. Is he “ignorant or just plain evil?” the Williams character asks her husband (Will Patton). “We can’t know. . . . We made our decision,” he tells her. “I don’t blame him for not knowing—I blame him for saying he did,” she replies, establishing herself as the party’s moral compass.

In a NYT piece, “Oregon Frontier, from Under a Bonnet,” Nicolas Rapold writes

“There was a quote I remembered that I had liked when I was 18 or something, that popped into my head: ‘I’ll go where my own nature would be leading,’ ” Ms. Williams said of her character, Emily Tetherow. The verse, by Emily Brontë, which continues, “It vexes me to choose another guide,” proves peculiarly apt for Mrs. Tetherow, who emerges as Meek’s prime skeptic and becomes an unusually vocal opponent. The actual diaries of women migrating West were also a source of inspiration for Ms. Williams. She said she marveled at the effort spent on writing at “the end of the longest day you could imagine.”

The forbearance and point of view in the journals comes out in Ms. Reichardt’s shading of events through the women’s perspective. Besides the constant visual metaphor of the obscuring bonnets, there are the intervening moments devoted to their chores (laundry, grinding coffee) and wide shots from their point of view that suggest their exclusion from major decision making, like when Meek and the men consult upon arriving at a lake that proves unpotable. But it’s also Mrs. Tetherow who first spies an Indian (Rod Rondeaux) who becomes another competing voice of authority as they drift along in increasing distress and disagreement.

Watch the official preview:

Best Picture Nominee Review Series: True Grit

True Grit (2010)

This is a guest review from Cynthia Arrieu-King

The Coen Brothers have triumphed in recognizing that their particular wifty and broad take on American violence could better the classic Western film True Grit. The original 1969 version drew from the campy Western novel True Grit by Charles Portis, and had a play-time, hokey quality. On initial comparison, the Coens made a shot for shot remake. Lucky for us, they don’t skimp on corpses, pith and the comic relief that witless people who think they are witty and witty people used to being considered witless both provide. Jarmusch could have made a mystical emotional version of this film à la Dead Man. But that is not the point of this film. The point is un-sentimentality and a little bizarre humor in the face of ruthless, emotionless terrain, a terrain the Coens know well.

I cannot talk about the feminist angle of the film without major spoilers, but suffice it to say, I could not believe what I was seeing in the main character of Hailee Steinfeld’s Mattie Ross. First, a brief discussion of the men and the scenery: it’s hard to say who was not stealing the scene from whom, man or woman or child, the length of this movie.

Jeff Bridges has taken his knack for laconic, comic outrage (The Big Lebowski) and muffled it down. His face has obliged us with a certain amount of real age. Towards the film’s end we understand that his emotion or caring will always be submerged in deference to what must be done, duty carried out with bodily instinct. Somehow Bridges never quite makes you consider whether or not Cogburn is a good or bad man. He is perpetually moving forward and comes to terms with what is and what is not possible without showing the sweat of a single emotional calorie. But you can sense that emotion is happening somewhere within, far within. There are plenty of John Wayne fanatics who post web comments on the Duke’s superiority to any possible actor in the role of Rooster Cogburn. This is nostalgia.

Matt Damon, the other main male character in this film, does his fake-nosed straight-man in shades of ridiculous pride and earnestness (as seen in The Oceans movies, Inside Job). He sees the law and is seized by it in a way Bridges’ Cogburn never is, and proves how thinking within the law will never get the job done. I mean, something pretty bad happens to his tongue; this never gets him to stop nattering on with supposed reasonableness. If everyone in this movie is a variation on the idea of true grit in a nation of True Grit, his Texas Ranger LaBoeuf might have a few grains less than the others and can live with his own humiliations.

The West looks more Zen, bosky, and alien through Roger Deakins’ cinematography; when things go wrong they are comic in an impromptu, a limitless space.

There is a dentist who pretty much steals the movie for at least 4 minutes, but I won’t spoil that for you.

Now for the main character of the story: Mattie Ross, also the narrator.

When watching the sloppily lethal Rooster Cogburn and the persistent young narrator of this movie interact, one can sense a power dynamic both odd and pleasing. I felt as if an old favorite doll had been put up at the dining room table with a real plate finally—Mattie Ross as Cogburn’s—as he calls her—“baby sister”.

Fine. I don’t know yet how to adequately express my astonishment that not only is the main character of this movie a 14 year-old girl, she is not a 14 year-old girl who gets swept aside, despite the men trying to sweep her aside—and actually dumping her off in the middle of nowhere with some gnarly thugs—for most of the movie. Her resolve is not plucky, it is near maniacal. They can’t get rid of her because she is irrationally rational. My jaw hung open a few times. This of course doesn’t necessarily confirm a feminist message about girl-child power, because she is not exactly a woman, she is a child entertaining in her single-mindedness. The story mostly emphasizes that if you want to be gritty, don’t get side-tracked in the vagaries of your emotion; have forethought and a long-range plan and wield a lawsuit adamantly until you are a nuisance that can’t be ignored. Steinfeld too never shows the processing of her emotions; the comebacks come as if her brain is mostly Intel Inside Core i5. The little black stable-boy in this movie has a conversation with Mattie as she retrieves a horse that ends with something like, “I can’t tell my boss what you said because he told me never to utter your name again.”

This spectacle of bullheaded feminine autocracy disguised as reason isn’t quite human and doesn’t necessarily do the male gender any favors either. The film’s minor men get to be idiots and the most reasonable and faintly kind ones get shot or maimed extra. To get ahead as a man, don’t think, don’t be kind; your best bet is to be emotionless too.

Okay, really, SPOILER ALERT. This girl wants to kill the man who killed her father. There is only an opening shot on this father’s dead body being snowed on. There is no narrative ramp-up besides this. And holy cow if she does not KILL, all by herself, messily, with purpose, her father’s killer—Tom Chaney. You think for a second someone else will do it. You think for a second Rooster will come back and save her. You are not totally wrong, but he really does leave her alone with this killer who turns out to be the most human of them all; remorseless and real. You might even think it’s a Coen movie, something god-awful is about to happen to her. I don’t know if it’s the shock this delivers to the viewer that a girl could grab the brass ring in this way, or relief that finally a girl gets to carry out the climactic plot point of a movie, but she does it. I didn’t even let myself think the Coens would allow this, which says more about my forgetting that one of them is married to Frances McDormand. Then Mattie falls into a giant hole and gets her girlish shrieks out that way. Well, she’s not a fucking Marine now, is she.

Is it a feminist movie? I think that it satisfies on many levels: the main character is a woman/girl, she wants revenge, to exercise her will, and she does it. She gets a little help, and some protection and some shot-up cornbread for her fifty dollars (which she actually never has to pay to Rooster). Though we have no narrative slip on which to fit our emotional understanding of her motivations, we go along with it. (To handicap myself as a reviewer: I have lost my father, I wanted to kill someone, I was a Daddy’s girl; as far as illustrating motivation goes, I’m like; what is there to explain?) But standing back, I can see that this sentimental premise was really nothing to have feared and the Coen Brothers didn’t have room or make room to deliver one of their painful montages or confrontations that sucks the emotion out of a wound and spits it in the viewer’s face as an explanation for Mattie’s drive.

So what to make of Mattie and Rooster’s relationship? Are they brother/sister, since he refers to her as baby sister? Are they weirdly, latently romantically linked? Are they father/daughter or uncle/niece? The movie gifts the weirdness of their dynamic and never allows it to settle into anything other than what it is. By the time Mattie (spoiler alert) dunks her water bucket erroneously into the creek and sees Tom Chaney for the first time, there isn’t much Rooster can do but ride away at the behest of her captors. And so he is neither a father, because what father would leave his child be? And he is not a brother, for the same reasons. He is not a friend. It is the coolness of his relationship to his own feelings that permits him both to enable her revenge and protect her with soldier-like strategy. Money never changes hands: perhaps it is only possible to be a woman who owns her revenge if she is actually only a child and if one steps out of capitalism’s systems.

In fact, this lack of sentimentality in the girl and the man allows them to be mirrors and strangely see themselves in each other. Their only credibility with each other: overarching determination. As Cogburn says when Mattie rides across the river on her horse—though this is obviously bullheaded and wreckless–he says, “She reminds me of me” and this is the first time he bothers to heed her. They work as a team because Mattie provides the reasonableness and Cogburn provides the instinct.

In the end it is the thrilling climax of the movie, the death of Tom Chaney, that pulls the biggest feminist punch, for I never saw it coming. This says more about viewer expectation and all westerns about revenge, and all those portraying high-pitched know-it-all girls in campy movies of any era. I think I might have had tears of happiness. Because the movie extends the reach of true violence and decision to a girl, it offers us a vision of grit as all-permeating to the people who truly have it: they can’t be otherwise.

Luck is another story.

The movie as much as it confounds ideas about what a cinematic-girl can be and can do, is also a story about luck. One can imagine that Cogburn gets Mattie through her final trial by determination, but given the nature of their story’s last legs, I’d say this tenacity had little to do with decision and more to do with uncontrollable factors. Mattie never marries. And sad to say, the movie seems to decide that a woman’s triumph is informed by her ability to control her emotion, and be invulnerable, and dumb luck falling helps.

The closing vignettes of Mattie as an adult feel like they’re there because the backstory of her father got lopped off. We are spared seeing Cogburn again, and spared seeing her marry and diminish some poor husband or herself. Cogburn is eventually buried next to her not as a lover, and not, as it might make sense to assume, as part of the family. He was someone as reliable and tough as herself, the one person who could match her and deserve a place next to her. This was a different, ongoing brand of love only expressed through action. In other words, perseverance.

Cynthia Arrieu-King is an assistant professor of creative writing at Stockton College. Her book People are Tiny in Paintings of China was just released from Octopus Books. Her late father loved John Wayne and her family has boxes of John Wayne videos that nobody watches but that no one can throw away.