out there
by Douglas Messerli
Joel and Ethan Coen (screenwriters and directors) (based on a
novel by Charles Portis) True Grit /
2010
If I have several times in these
pages chided the Coen brothers for their sophomoric cynicism and exaggerated
characterizations of the human species, I have also noted time and again their
brilliant gifts as directors, particularly when they work, as they have here
and as they did in No Country for Old Men,
with pre-existing sources. In both cases the sensibilities of the authors
nicely match the Coens’ viewpoints. But the darkness of these films is far more
profound than the shallow nose-thumbings that often occur in the Coens' more
comic works.
Indeed, I believe True Grit—despite
Los Angeles Times critic Betsy
Sharkey's proclamation in today’s paper that this film (as well as others this
year) is far “nicer” than No Country for
Old Men—is their most horrifying work to date. For in the earlier film,
chaos and destruction was meted out by the evil villain; in last year’s A Serious Man, the sufferings endured by
the hero were obviously the "gift" of a wrathful God. But in True Grit it is the so called “good
people,” as well as the villains, who kill.
None of this, however, truly fazes this intense moppet, and we soon
discover that like most of those around her, when it comes to facing
annihilation, she has a heart of stone. For Mattie is determined to get revenge,
to track down the man who killed her father, presumed now to be in Indian
Territory, a jurisdiction of federal marshals who are few in number and busy
with larger crimes. Spouting the gospel
as if she were a child-preacher out a Flannery O’Connor tale, Mattie doesn’t
even blink in her forward motion of righteous wrath. Unlike the 1969 movie
version of True Grit, which
significantly softened this figure’s indignation, the Coens transform her into
a pint-sized prophet utterly determined to accomplish what she believes she is
destined to do.
When told that US Marshall Rooster Cogburn (played in the original by John Wayne, and here by Jeff Bridges) is the meanest of men she might chose to lead her on the chase, Mattie checks out a local trial wherein she hears testimony to his murderous ways. Cogburn, however, is not just a murderer—or, as some might prefer to describe him, a successful sheriff—but he is a serious drunk (ridiculously euphemized by suggesting he likes to “pop a cork”), and Mattie has not only to get around his reluctance to the chase but his questionable ability to accomplish it. Part of the film’s humor lies in her stubborn maneuvering of Cogburn and in his determination to keep her from attempting to join him in the task. Against her desire, Cogburn teams up with another man, LaBoeuf (hilariously played by Matt Damon), a roughly mustachioed and spur-jangling Texas Ranger who is after Chaney for a different murder and a large reward. Both try to sneak away early in the morning before Mattie can join them, but she is soon hot on their trail and thoroughly demonstrates her “true grit” by fording the river on horseback.
In the Coens' telling, the three potential killers—thoroughly revealing,
as The New York Times critic
Manhola Dargis pointed out, D. H. Lawrence’s postulate that “the essential
American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer”—now come face to face with
an even greater emblem of death, the vast “out there,” the frontier itself.
This is not the lush green or even picturesquely rocky landscape of most
Westerns, but a bleached-out and barren world stripped of nearly everything,
including the Indians. At the best the trio come across an occasional cabin or
an eccentric loner such as Bear Man (Ed Corbin), a wilderness doctor cloaked in
the entire pelt of a bear with head attached. In this world, death looms
everywhere. And, as the two men—the grumpy and always woozy Cogburn and the
bragging, self-centered LaBoeuf—inevitably turn against one another, Mattie is
put into the position of a scolding, cajoling guide, leading them, as much as
they lead her, into harm’s way.
While both LaBoeuf and Cogburn take bullets, surviving nonetheless,
Mattie, falling down into a sink hole, must face nature itself, in the form of
a true symbol of the evil of her and the others' acts, by being bitten by a
poisonous snake. Even a mad rush across the starlit plane cannot entirely make
her whole again; she loses her horse and one arm. We later discover that her
strong-willed ways perhaps also left her in a life of loneliness, for she never
marries.
Although Mattie does not question her acts or attempt to justify her mad
determination to gun down her father’s killer, we must, at some point, judge
her, just as the people of the city had judged Rooster Cogburn earlier in the
film. And we realize that in her fanatical grittiness there is something heroic
yet ridiculous, that she is a figure at once comic and tragic, similar to US
history.
Los Angeles, New Year’s Day, 2011
Reprinted from International Cinema Review (January 2011).
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