The Evolution of Eastwood: COOGAN’S BLUFF

Posted on by Aaron White.

COOGAN’S BLUFF (1968)

“You better drop that blade, or you won’t believe what happens next, even while it’s happening.” – Coogan

Work began on Coogan’s Bluff (the second of three Eastwood films released in 1968) even before Hang ‘Em High had been released. The original script had appealed to him and offered a welcome chance to move away from the westerns for which he was known without really moving away from them. Essentially, the film is a western in tone, style, and characterization, but set in 1960s New York City.

The plot involves a womanizing and reckless Chief Deputy from Arizona named Walt Coogan (Eastwood, of course) who is given orders to extradite a prisoner he’d previously captured from New York City. While in the city, he finds himself in conflict with the bureaucracy standing between him and his prisoner and a stubborn Chief of Police (played by Lee J. Cobb). He bypasses the process with lies and exaggerations to get his hands on his prisoner, but he is then tricked and ambushed and the prisoner escapes. What follows is a vigilante manhunt through the city, against the will of both the city police and his own chief back in Arizona, wherein Coogan attempts to bring his escaped convict to justice.

The film was a decent hit in 1968, so I was excited to see it (it’s the first one in this year-long challenge that was new to me). It is most notable for being the first partnership between Clint Eastwood and Don Siegel (who would go on to direct Eastwood four more times, most notably in Dirty Harry). Prior to their pairing for this film, neither of the two men had even heard of each other, but they worked well together and became good friends off-set as well.

As for this first outing for them, Coogan’s Bluff is very “of its time”, which isn’t entirely a compliment. The sensibilities of late-60s/early-70s cop thrillers aren’t terribly appealing to me and some of them border on distasteful, particularly in their treatment of women (of which Coogan’s Bluff has a handful of transgressions). The script is often painfully utilitarian, the direction is straightforward and pedestrian, and the general resolution feels too tidy given some of the narrative’s general complications. In short, it’s easy to see why contemporary audiences enjoyed it, but it doesn’t hold up very well.

What works about it is Eastwood’s steady – if unremarkable – performance, two genuinely thrilling action sequences (one of them a motorcycle chase and the other an out all brawl in a pool room), and an even, simplistic narrative. Unfortunately, these merits don’t quite elevate the material beyond the status of a Saturday afternoon cable matinee. It’s worth noting that the script was a matter of some frustration for Eastwood. He had originally been drawn to the simplicity of the original script, penned by Rawhide veterans Herman Miller and Jack Laird as a possible TV pilot. But upon hiring writers to make the script more cinematic (and watching it go through several unlikable drafts), Eastwood rejected any further rewrites in favor of going back to the original concept. Dean Reisner was finally hired and, with considerable input from Eastwood himself, a new script was finished. This overall experience would start a long-standing distaste in Eastwood’s work for extensive revisions to scripts.

I can’t speak to the quality of the scripts that didn’t make it to the screen, but the one we finally get isn’t very good. It isn’t surprising that it was originally conceived as a TV pilot (the overall production has a decisively small-screen feel), but the script has three major problems:

First, the character of Coogan isn’t very likable (or effective). His treatment of women seems inconsistent (he slaps a man for groping a woman without permission, but frequently makes unwanted advances himself and even roughs up a woman late in the film to obtain information). It’s also his own impatience which causes the primary problem in the first place. His “bluff” subverts due process and enables the prisoner to escape. It’s difficult to root for a hero so fundamentally impetuous and arrogant. Eastwood plays Coogan with an appropriate blend of machismo confidence and gruff rebellion. It’s a steady and assured performance, but ultimately unremarkable and made even less so by how unlikable the character is.

Second, the film’s treatment of women is – at times – painfully offensive. In the character of Julie Roth (played by Susan Clark), the film seems to be attempting to present an independent and self-sufficient working woman, but her inevitable swooning over Coogan and her passivity towards moments of objectification are troubling at best and offensive at worse. All other female characters are reduced to objects of either Coogan’s affections or the villain’s (including the one Coogan eventually starts tossing around a room). It may not be uncommon given the times in which the film was made, but it’s uncomfortable and potentially upsetting to current sensibilities.

Lastly, the stakes in the script are simply too small. The reason for Coogan’s inability to extradite the prisoner is described in only the broadest of terms (which might support the character’s reason for bypassing it entirely). But even after Coogan’s “bluff” to get his hands on the prisoner lands him in deep trouble with both the local and his own direct authorities, his continued vigilante tactics are eventually dismissed with impunity simply because they are ultimately successful (yes, I know I just spoiled the ending of the film, but with a film like this you’ll already see the ending coming from an hour away).

Coogan’s Bluff is, in many ways, a very natural next step in Eastwood’s filmography. Coogan wears a cowboy hat (and is often referred to as “cowboy” by other characters). He carries himself very much the way Jed Cooper from Hang ‘Em High carried himself, with simple drives and simple goals. He’s the same basic character we’ve already come to know him as playing, just in the city instead of the west. Fans of this genre’s period will likely find this to be a perfectly acceptable entry, if not an impressive one. But for the casual film viewer, Coogan’s Bluff is little more than mild, diversionary fare.

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.

The Evolution of Eastwood: WHERE EAGLES DARE

Posted on by Aaron White.

WHERE EAGLES DARE (1968)

“Do me a favor, will you? Next time you have one of these things, keep it an all-British operation.” – Lt. Morris Schaffer

The third film Eastwood released in 1968 was the only one in which he was not the primary lead. It’s also possibly the best of the three. The film began specifically as a vehicle for its primary star, Richard Burton, who was looking for a stronger candidate to have a hit film. The film was a calculated attempt to earn a box office hit and allow Burton to perform in a piece with a broader appeal. Lee Marvin was approached to play opposite Burton, but he turned it down because he’d just recently completed The Dirty Dozen. The script was then sent to Eastwood, whose star was shining brightly thanks to the Leone films. Originally Eastwood didn’t care for the script, but the amount he was offered for the role quieted any quibbles he was carrying.

Writer Alistair MacLean had established a reputation for himself as a solid thriller craftsman whose bestselling books frequently translated into hit films. He was commissioned to craft a new story, largely with an eye towards being a Richard Burton vehicle. The result was Where Eagles Dare, a wartime covert-rescue thriller in which an elite team (who had never worked together before) must infiltrate a secluded castle stronghold and extract a captured American General. Although the mission is direct, its chances of success are very slim, and it quickly becomes clear that the mission is not as simple as it seems (and neither are the men on it).

Although Eastwood is not the primary headliner on this film, his presence is invaluable to why it works so well. Richard Burton, whose acting background was largely based in live stage work, adeptly handles the language when exposition or revelations become too wordy. Meanwhile, Eastwood (who, again, was not a fan of the script and actually asked for some of his lines to be given to Burton) spends his time largely letting his steely squint speak for him (a quality he’s come to nearly perfect thanks to his work with Leone). Burton and Eastwood were given much liberty to help craft their own characters for this film and the result is a highly watchable, frequently thrilling wartime spy classic.

The script itself, despite Eastwood’s irritations, is skillfully crafted, although it frequently suffers from a certain pedestrian bluntness when it’s delivering key pieces of exposition or explanation. This simplicity is offset, however, by a handful of genuinely surprising plot twists. Having never seen this film and knowing very little from cultural awareness allowed me to experience these twists with unjaded eyes and I found them to be very effective. From the onset of the narrative mission, one of the team is killed in a way that was intended to appear accidental. Since the individuals have not worked together before, suspicions begin to abound, not only about who on the team might be a traitor, but also about why they might truly have been sent on the mission at all. With each new revelation, the stakes and advantages shift; and I dare any first-time viewer to accurately guess what surprise will come next.

Most of the action sequences are focused on the last half of the film, and some of them are quite suspenseful. There are two sequences involving struggles atop a miles-high cable car that are very tense. It is also probably worth noting that, possibly because of the wartime setting, Eastwood’s character kills more people in this film than he does in any future film in which he stars (including some of his more brutal westerns). The sequences feel somewhat dated for the most part, but any astute viewer entering the film with an understanding of late-60s sensibilities should find themselves in for quite a treat.

As for this entry in Eastwood’s overall filmography, it made me wonder why he didn’t take on more secondary or supporting roles. No one would question his charisma or talent as a leading man, he’d already well proven those by this point. But he really thrives as a supporting character (although, true, he’s practically a co-lead in this film). His capacity to influence a scene in which he’s not directly leading the action is highlighted in this under-discussed gem. If you’re a fan of covert mission stories, or of wartime thrillers in general, you should give some time for Where Eagles Dare.

 

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.

The Evolution of Eastwood: HANG ‘EM HIGH

Posted on by Aaron White.

HANG ‘EM HIGH (1968)

“All right, now that makes three mistakes we’ve made. The money, we hung an innocent man, and we didn’t finish the job.” – Captain Wilson

Clint Eastwood spent three years in the 1960s filming the “man with no name” trilogy under the direction of Sergio Leone, then another two years after that recording his dialogue for the English language releases. The whole process left him frustrated and stalled, but it also made him an almost immediate superstar. Following the consecutive American releases of the Leone films (which all hit the states in 1967), Eastwood would release no less than three films in the following year.

Amidst the release of the Leone trilogy, Eastwood was given two scripts almost simultaneously. One was a larger scale western adventure starring Gregory Peck called Mackenna’s Gold. The other was a lower-scale revenge piece (also a western) called Hang ‘Em High. Eastwood preferred the latter script, and even launched his own production studio to see it made. Sergio Leone was approached to direct, but he was already deep into production of Once Upon a Time in the West (with which he finally got the chance to work with Henry Fonda and Charles Bronson). So Eastwood called on an old friend of his, Ted Post, who had directed him in more than 20 episodes of Rawhide.

Hang ‘Em High begins when Jed Cooper (Eastwood) is taking a newly purchased herd of cattle across the plains. He is suddenly accosted by a posse of nine bloodthirsty vigilantes who, mistaking Cooper for a murderous cattle rustler, lynch him without trial on the basis of flimsy circumstantial evidence. Unfortunately for them, they do a sloppy job of it and Cooper survives. Later deputized as a US Marshal, Cooper sets out on a legally sanctioned quest to bring his nine assailants to justice.

For the majority of its runtime, the film treats its elements very directly. The narrative, the conflict, and the character’s motivations and morals are all very simple, almost superficial. Adding some thematic flavor to the whole piece is a hanging-hungry town judge (played by Pat Hingle) and a beautiful owner of the local general store (played by Inger Stevens). While these two characters influence the plot in ways you’d easily predict, each of them also hides a painful darkness that provides some unexpected momentary thematic exploration. For example, Judge Fenton is so protective of the ideal of just punishment that he is willing to hang two younger boys caught up over the heads in associative crime than provide them the opportunity for rehabilitation (a decision that puts him in direct odds with Cooper). Likewise, Rachel Warren (the store owner), who is openly benevolent and sympathetic to hanging victims, is secretly waiting for the opportunity to watch the man who assaulted her years earlier hang for it.

Eastwood’s acting is solid, of course, but there is a bluntness to his performance that feels almost amateurish at times. After three straight films under a decidedly different visionary director than his Rawhide days, working under a Rawhide veteran for this film may have reverted some comfortable habits. The mystique of the “man with no name” is replaced by an only slightly modified version of the heroic “white hat” character that Eastwood had taken on the Leone roles to flex away from in the first place. Perhaps Eastwood saw this film as a blend of comfort and challenge, by playing a more familiar and safer role to which he was more accustomed but obtaining more creative control by sending the film through his newly formed production studio.

But this is not to say that Hang ‘Em High is by any means a low-quality film. It’s skillfully structured, has a frequently gripping and suspenseful script, and features a collection of high-caliber performers (including Ed Begley, Bruce Dern, and a cameo appearance by the then-unknown Dennis Hopper). If you pay attention, you’ll locate Jonathan Goldsmith – the “most interesting man alive” from the Dos Equis commercials – as one of the nine vigilantes. It definitely lacks the flourish and grandeur of the spaghetti westerns, but still serves up an entertaining, well-told story.

Hang ‘Em High does not by any means reinvent the western wheel (and rabid fans of the Leone trilogy may not immediately acclimate to the more blunt, direct tone of its style), but it is a solidly entertaining western classic well worth the time of even a moderate fan of the genre.

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.

The Evolution of Eastwood: THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY

Posted on by Aaron White.

THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY (1966)

“I’ve never seen so many men wasted so badly.” – Blondie

I should get this out of the way right up front: I’m one of the very rare breed of film lovers who enjoys watching For a Few Dollars More more than The Good, the Bad & the Ugly. However, I do consider this third installment in the “man with no name” trilogy to be the more cinematically important film of those two, I think objectively that For a Few Dollars More is more tightly constructed and more focused overall.

This perspective was largely birthed out of this chronological, close-proximity viewing sequence. I watched each film with only a day’s break in between to collect and assess my thoughts on them. A Fistful of Dollars is a thrilling initial entry. For a Few Dollars More expands the world and enriches the character motivations substantially. The Good, the Bad & the Ugly attempts to do the same thing, while also making a handful of profound statements about the futility of violence and the cold reality of death. However, this third film takes so much time setting up that it feels unfocused in places.

There is undeniably cinematic greatness in The Good, the Bad & the Ugly. The simple narrative of three competing bandits in search of a buried treasure amidst the American Civil War has the advantage of being simultaneously intimate and epic. There are moments of tremendous emotional impact, such as the scene where Eastwood’s drifter gives his coat and hits of his cigar to a dying young soldier or the juxtaposition of the hauntingly beautiful song the soldiers sing as Tuco is beaten for information. The themes are provocative, as the violence is amplified and the body count is significantly higher (of course due to wartime casualties). The film was initially heavily criticized for its violence, but reassessment over time has redeemed and highly praised Leone’s vision.

If the films latter half were the bulk of the movie, with the first half trimmed down significantly, this would easily be my favorite in the series. There are moments in that latter half that are utterly unforgettable and vastly outrank any individual moment in the first two installments. However, the first half spends a lot of time establishing the scenario: showing us Tuco and Blondie’s tenuous partnership and the ruthless, homicidal glee that Angel Eyes exhibits. We are nearly an hour into the film before we fully know the primary search the three titular icons will undertake, and while in other films that would be no complaint, Leone takes too much time in my opinion getting to where we need to get for the necessary collisions. The pacing feels ambling, as if the film were finding itself out as it went along. But once Tuco and Blondie finally set out for the buried gold, things quickly and powerfully ramp up.

My other major complaint is the disparity between how much characterization is given to Tuco (about whom we discover almost everything) versus Angel Eyes and Blondie (about whom we see primarily motivations only). If the same sparse background were given to all three characters, things wouldn’t feel so off balance. As it is, the climactic battle feels inevitable in its outcome and much of the suspense is diluted, despite the powerful cinematography, performances, and musical score.

Eastwood is given less to work with in this film than in either of the two previous installments. In A Fistful of Dollars, he had to balance pitting two rival families against each other and revealing a subtle benevolence towards a couple of their victims. In For a Few Dollars More, he juggled distrust and admiration for his new companion without ever losing the malice and threat towards the hunted bandits. But in The Good, the Bad & the Ugly, he merely has to appear, look stoic and melancholy, and squint as frequently as possible. I’m not criticizing the performance, but the weight of interesting narrative beats are nearly all shifted to Tuco’s character (played by Eli Wallach). Just as For a Few Dollars More was mostly Colonel Mortimer’s story, The Good, the Bad & the Ugly is mostly Tuco’s, but unlike that previous film, Leone gives Eastwood’s bounty hunter less to work with, not more.

Eastwood still delivers a compelling performance simply by standing up. It’s worth noting that this film is technically a prequel to the first two, with Eastwood not obtaining his trademark poncho until late in the film (following arguably the film’s most powerful moment). Eastwood is captivating and charismatic, but he appears to be on autopilot for a large section of the story. Perhaps his working relationship with Leone was growing tiresome (they never worked together again) or perhaps he was ready to move on to other roles, but he does seem a bit more distant in this narrative than in the first two stories.

This film is nearly universally praised. Perhaps my disappointment in this viewing is more grounded in a reaction to that praise than to the film itself. Because it is undeniably an epic achievement, deeply influential in both cinematic style and the boundaries of film at large. If my review sounds like a non-recommendation, please don’t take it as such. This is a film that deserves to be seen and that you will likely highly enjoy.

But, in charting the “Evolution of Eastwood”, the film takes a surprising (if notably tiny) step backwards. Maybe this provides an explanation for why he wouldn’t appear as “the man with no name” again, at least not for Sergio Leone.

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.

The Evolution of Eastwood: FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE

Posted on by Aaron White.

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE (1965)

“Where life has no value, death, sometimes, has its price. That is why the bounty hunters appeared.” – Opening caption

The sequel to the landmark Italian western A Fistful of Dollars is more ambitious and often more rewarding than its predecessor. Sergio Leone had struck gold with A Fistful of Dollars and he hastily began coordination for a sequel (albeit with new producer, having fallen out with Jolly Films who produced the original). However, Eastwood was reluctant to return to his role because, at the time he was approached, he had not yet seen the first film. A print in Italian was rushed for him to view and, after screening it with a few friends, Eastwood agreed to return for the sequel.

Interestingly, despite the trilogy coming to be known as the “man with no name” series, Eastwood’s character is definitively given a name in this film: Monco. This was largely due to a lawsuit brought by Jolly Films saying that they owned the character from A Fistful of Dollars (the title itself is a subtle jab at that studio: For a Few Dollars More).

Having so recently closed work on the original, Clint Eastwood’s confidence is fixed and his focus is tight going into For a Few Dollars More. He commands the role with much more assurance and his interpretation is more complex and subtle. It adds no small measure of assistance that he is formally playing off a comrade throughout the latter half of the film. Lee Van Cleef, playing the role of Colonel Douglas Mortimer (a role originally offered to Charles Bronson), is arguably a more prominent character in this film than Eastwood’s Monco. The film opens with Mortimer, and the final moments reveal more crucial stakes for Mortimer’s character in the outcome of the narrative’s events.

The story this time is that two bounty hunters (Cleef and Eastwood) are pursuing the same man and his gang of bandits. Seeing little chance of either one of them overpowering their prey’s gang alone (and following a fantastic sequence in which they observe each other’s skills with a gun) they decide to join forces and share the profits. What follows is pretty straightforward cat-and-mouse western gunslinging, with the upper hand shifting sides a time or two before all is said and done.

Cleef’s presence is a strong counterpoint to Eastwood and the scenes with the two of them together are electric as a result. Gian Maria Volonte returns as the primary villain in this film as well (although naturally playing a completely different character) and the enemy here is more cunning, more ruthless, and more emotionally complex than any of the bandits and gunslingers from the last film. His character is visibly insane, but not with a mad, manic fury. Instead, Volonte plays moments of murder so coldly that we know we’re dealing with a psychopath, which makes his occasional vulnerable quivers and haunted flashbacks even more fascinating.

These combined elements elevate the entire picture: Volonte’s complex villain, Cleef’s compelling addition, and Eastwood’s stronger and more layered performance. For a Few Dollars More certainly feels very similar to its predecessor (although the plots are certainly distinct), but it is remarkably stronger and more emotionally rewarding. It was credited with presenting a different take on the bounty hunter character in western cinema (giving that job a more credible and potentially heroic spin) and with catapulting Cleef and Eastwood into stardom in America. There were vocal critics of the film who derided the attempt to basically paint murderers as heroes, but the film was wildly popular with audiences and it became an even greater financial success than the first film.

Eastwood was also at a cross-roads career wise. His prominent roles by this point had all been westerns and the fear of being type-cast was perhaps already being realized. But Eastwood’s obvious gain in experience (even simply between these two films) was fashioning a performer who could communicate as much with a squinty stare as he could with a monologue. A legendary actor was emerging, and that legacy would become nearly irrevocable by the time the third entry in this trilogy was released.

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.

The Evolution of Eastwood: A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS

Posted on by Aaron White.

A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS (1964)

“Get three coffins ready.” – Joe

In 1964, legendary Italian director Sergio Leone changed the Western genre of cinema forever.

Prior to that time, westerns (which had been an exclusively American film genre) had been established and populated by tales of cowboys and outlaws, good guys who wear white and bad guys who wear black, wagon trails and cattle drives, not to mention a genuinely regrettable trend of negative portrayals of Native Americans and their culture. Pioneers of the genre, most notably John Ford, had carried the tropes and patterns about as far as they could go under the original paradigm. Most of them did not deal with morally complex heroes (with a few notable exceptions like The Searchers or The Treasure of Sierra Madre). And while those foundational elements are irrefutably brilliant, the genre’s popularity and effectiveness had waned by the mid-60s.

Enter Leone. Leaning on the plot of a recent Japanese film by Akira Kurasawa called Yojimbo (a stunt which got Leone successfully sued by Kurasawa’s production studio), and wanting to reinvigorate and revitalize the western genre, Leone envisioned a battle-weary town torn and terrified by the clashes of two rival families into which — one day — a stranger would ride and ignite the end of the longstanding feud. That stranger? None other than Clint Eastwood, taking on his first starring film role in the first installment of a trilogy that would propel and largely define his stardom.

There is a mountain of things to say about A Fistful of Dollars as a film and how it virtually redefined the western genre in ways which remain standard. It increased the violence and darkened the tone. It sharpened the landscape and sullied up the wardrobes. It presented a notably more brutal and unflinching world in which its characters would inhabit.

But most of all, it fashioned at its center a hero whose motives are foggy and whose morals are even murkier. He is compassionate towards and even rescues a poor family from devastation at the hands of the murderous family, but has no qualms or reservations about lying, scheming, and even casually leveraging dead bodies for his own financial gain. When the film begins, he appears to be merely a bounty hunter and enterprising gunslinger, but as the narrative progresses his deeper intentions (which border on the anarchic) emerge.

The film was, at the time, the most successful Italian film in history, spawning two even more successful (and most agree objectively better) films comprising a thematic and stylistic trilogy. When all three films came to the states (they’re called spaghetti westerns solely because they were made by an Italian director) they achieved identical success and skyrocketed the fame and career of Clint Eastwood.

Eastwood, for his part, delivers an assured and compelling performance in his first turn as “The Man with No Name.” He had played numerous supporting roles at this point in his career and had even been the steady leading role on nearly eight seasons of Rawhide for television. But his character here (occasionally called and credited as “Joe”, which is never confirmed) is firmly an antihero, the reverse in many ways of the white-hatted hero of previous landmark westerns.

What Eastwood brings to the role is a decisively enigmatic quality. His handsome face and humor-flavored voice contrast a distinctly menacing undertone. And when he squints — an entirely practical affectation caused by too much glaring light in his face — he puts on the facade of a mythic warrior, as intimidating as he is controlled. Leone (who originally did not want to cast Eastwood) later praised the subtlety of the performance, referring to it as appropriately binary. Leone is quoted as saying, “Eastwood, at that time, only had two expressions: with hat and no hat.” It echoes the ancient comedy and tragedy masks of classical Greek theater.

While the range is certainly limited at this point, it already foreshadows a depth and complexity Eastwood would later explore both in front of and behind the camera. For now, he shows up, makes his move, and then drifts off into the sunset. It’s an epic beginning to an epic career.

Richard Harrison, the popular western star who Leone wanted to cast (after Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson, and a slew of others turned him down) first recommended Eastwood for the role. Harrison would later state, “Maybe my greatest contribution to cinema was not doing A Fistful of Dollars and recommending Clint for the part.”

Honestly, with all due respect to Harrison’s fine work, I can’t say I disagree.

P.S. Although this series focuses primarily on Clint Eastwood’s evolution as an actor and director, it’s impossible to discuss A Fistful of Dollars without mentioning the iconic score of Ennio Morricone, who crafted an indelible soundscape into which westerns would venture for decades to follow. Simultaneously intimate and grand, Morricone’s score is as credited for the success of A Fistful of Dollars as either Eastwood or Leone. It’s a brilliant work and deserves its place in cultural legend.

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.

The Evolution of Eastwood: An Introduction

Posted on by Aaron White.

Last year, I spent time watching the films of Alfred Hitchcock. I watched them in chronological order of their release, from the first to the last.

The experience was revelatory in a number of ways. Certain thematic and narrative patterns emerged that would have otherwise remained buried in the bubble of the individual films. When taken in sequence, certain anomalies become fascinating sources of consideration for what might be happening in the life or career of an artist to draw them towards a particular project, even if something is done merely for the paycheck.

I love viewing such patterns and trends in the work of an artist. But when their films are viewed out of sequence to when they were made, it’s much more difficult to ascertain the shape and evolution of those patterns. You have to see what they did at point D to understand why point F looks and feels the way it does.

Artists – good ones anyway, but especially great ones – change as time carries on. The changes may be subtle, and perhaps not for the better, but the change is inevitable. And most of all, the change is interesting. Because an artist may be either embracing or rejecting certain notions about their own craft and legacy in real time according to the pieces they produce. Observing that linear evolution helps us to understand why they’re revered as artists, what the most common elements of their contribution to the art form are, and in many ways helps us to better understand why their material resonates (or doesn’t) with the larger artistic community.

For this year, at Feelin’ Film’s request, I’ll be turning my attention towards the work of Actor, Producer, Composer, and Director Clint Eastwood.

Eastwood emerged in the 50s and 60s as a man straight out of the western fabric of John Ford’s landscape: a strong, silent type who let his guns and his fists do most of his talking as the occasion called for it. But unlike the legends of the cinema who populated those early works (like Wayne, Cooper, Peck, and Stewart), Eastwood was darker, with an undercurrent of malice and spite. His ethics were more complicated and his characters were frequently more brutal.

Eastwood eventually solidified himself as somewhat of a mythic figure on the American cinematic landscape. Whether embodying drill sergeants, gunfighters, or the play-by-his-own-rules-of-justice lawman Dirty Harry, Eastwood became a quintessential symbol for the righteous outlaw. A take-no-guff, independent, machismo hero.

Yet, many of his films (specifically those which he directed) display a striking vulnerability and often a futility to their goals and aspirations. Frequently the victories come at irreversible cost, when they come at all. His career unveils some of the best and worst characteristics in our heroes, both the epic and the everyday variety.

So, throughout 2018, I’ll be charting his progress and evolution as an artist, both as an actor and performer (in primarily starring roles) and as a director. It’ll be a (hopefully) fascinating journey through the last 50 years of American cinema, through the lens of one of its most noteworthy icons.

The 60 films I’ll be covering are listed below, starting with Sergio Leone’s “Man With No Name” Trilogy and concluding with Eastwood’s planned 2018 release, The 15:17 to Paris.

Wish me luck… punk. I’m gonna need it.

Eastwood Films

A Fistful of Dollars (1964 – Actor) The Gauntlet (1977 – Actor/Director) The Bridges of Madison County (1995 – Actor/Director)
For a Few Dollars More (1965 – Actor) Every Which Way But Loose (1978 – Actor) Absolute Power (1997 – Actor/Director)
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966 – Actor) Escape from Alcatraz (1979 – Actor) Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (1997 – Director)
Hang ‘Em High (1968 – Actor) Bronco Billy (1980 – Actor/Director) True Crime (1999 – Actor/Director)
Coogan’s Bluff (1968 – Actor) Any Which Way You Can (1980 – Actor) Space Cowboys (2000 – Actor/Director)
Where Eagles Dare (1968 – Actor) Firefox (1982 – Actor/Director) Blood Work (2002 – Actor/Director)
Paint Your Wagon (1969 – Actor) Honkytonk Man (1982 – Actor/Director) Mystic River (2003 – Director)
Two Mules for Sister Sara (1970 – Actor) Sudden Impact (1983 – Actor/Director) Million Dollar Baby (2004 – Actor/Director)
Kelly’s Heroes (1970 – Actor) Tightrope (1984 – Actor) Flags of Our Fathers (2006 – Director)
The Beguiled (1971 – Actor) City Heat (1984 – Actor) Letters from Iwo Jima (2006 – Director)
Play Misty for Me (1971 – Actor/Director) Pale Rider (1985 – Actor/Director) Changeling (2008 – Director)
Dirty Harry (1971 – Actor) Heartbreak Ridge (1986 – Actor/Director) Gran Torino (2008 – Actor/Director)
Joe Kidd (1972 – Actor) The Dead Pool (1988 – Actor) Invictus (2009 – Director)
High Plains Drifter (1973 – Actor/Director) Bird (1988 – Director) Hereafter (2010 – Director)
Breezy (1973 – Director) Pink Cadillac (1989 – Actor) Edgar (2011 – Director)
Magnum Force (1973 – Actor) White Hunter Black Heart (1990 – Actor/Director) Trouble with the Curve (2012 – Actor)
Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (1974 – Actor) The Rookie (1990 – Actor/Director) Jersey Boys (2014 – Director)
The Eiger Sanction (1975 – Actor/Director) Unforgiven (1992 – Actor/Director) American Sniper (2014 – Director)
The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976 – Actor/Director) In the Line of Fire (1993 – Actor) Sully (2016 – Director)
The Enforcer (1976 – Actor) A Perfect World (1993 – Actor/Director) The 15:17 to Paris (2018 – Director)

 

Reed Lackey is based in Los Angeles, where he writes and podcasts about film and faith. His primary work is featured on the More Than One Lesson website and podcast, as well as his primary podcast, The Fear of God (which examines the intersection between Christianity and the horror genre). Follow him on Twitter or on Facebook to receive updates on his reviews and editorials.