My Darling Clementine

 

 

 

John Ford on the set with Henry Fonda (left) and Cathy Downs

 

MY DARLING CLEMENTINE           B+                                                                                   USA  (97 mi)  1946  d:  John Ford

What kind of a town is this, anyway?  A man can't get a shave without getting his head blowed off.      —Wyatt Earp (Henry Fonda)

Coming immediately after the end of WWII, Ford chose an avenging angel picture to mirror the sacrifices made during the war, using Henry Fonda as the moral conscience of Wyatt Earp, a stranger just passing through, an ex-marshal come in out of the cold to bring civilization to the lawless town of Tombstone, using unorthodox and perhaps even lawless methods to accomplish the task, but when he leaves just a few days later, the town is a much better place, representing hope and optimism for the future.  This is a conquest of the wilderness film, revealing how the American frontier was founded by overcoming the corruptions of the past, and laying in its place the foundations of civilization and individual liberty.  Americans in the 1940’s lived through a period of great uncertainty, having already survived the tragic economic effects of the Great Depression, now having to survive the trauma of WWII, along with it the horror of atomic bombs and the nightmarish revelations of the Holocaust.  America had not yet developed into the superpower it would become, where there were plenty of fears and anxieties about the future, including an underlying belief that we would have to re-navigate our political traditions and redefine a new road to progress, fueled by the promise of the American Dream.  After experiencing so much devastation and death during the war, Ford wanted to help rebuild America’s belief and confidence in itself and its own history, returning to Hollywood after his stint as a naval officer to make a film about a living legend.  To Ford, who actually met the real Wyatt Earp in his youth, Earp was a frontier figure that helped transform the West, believing progress lay in establishing outposts of civilization that could stand the test of time.  Earp’s authority as a lawman is unprecedented, yet he doesn’t wear a gun, as he mixes easily in the company of the fastest guns, part of the mythical lore of the West, while also enjoying the game of poker, often associated with shady dealers and shifty characters, where villainy rules when it comes to stealing the pot.  To travel so frequently in criminal subcultures makes him the ideal lawman when it comes to instilling moral values and administering justice, though like Ethan Edwards in THE SEARCHERS (1956), he still lives outside the boundaries of civilized life.  The general consensus is that Ford made few films in his career that actually lived up to his own aspirations, with this being one of them, working closely in developing the script with Winston Miller and Samuel G. Engel, adapting the popular 1931 novel Wyatt Earp:  Frontier Marshal by Stuart N. Lake, which offered a historical glimpse of early cattle towns on the Great Plains that helped build the legendary status associated with his name, with Ford claiming this film represents Earp’s version of the gunfight at the OK Corral, the climactic moment of the film.  While it remains among the most critically acclaimed of all Ford’s films, listed as one of the first 75 films ever entered into the National Film Registry, it is firmly rooted in myth, however, suggesting the appearance of these towns popping up across the American West brought civilization and democracy to the American West, pushing aside the amoral primitivism of the lawless frontier, accentuated by an argument advanced by historian Frederick Jackson Turner in his 1893 Frontier Thesis, which was massively accepted in its time and for more than 100 years after, still not totally discredited, popularized by President Theodore Roosevelt’s celebration of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and artists like Frederick Remington.  Problematically, underneath Turner’s optimism lay racist condescending references to Indian land as a savage frontier, implying Indians are “savages,” yet from an Indian point of view that land didn’t get savage until the arrival of whites.  To the extent that Ford helped perpetuate this racist myth is well documented, as the more developed central characters in his films are always whites, while Indians, Mexicans, or other non-whites are always viewed as a negative counterpoint to the “civilized” white values, using the vast emptiness of Monument Valley, where he shot nine westerns, as a natural backdrop for his untamed frontier. 

There is a natural ease about this film that sets it apart, never in a hurry, quietly contemplative with dark and melancholic themes, and a brooding sadness with the tubercular Doc Holliday (Victor Mature) sensing his own demise, yet its nostalgic, easy going approach makes heavily romanticized jingoistic propaganda feel overly conventional and mainstream, which is precisely Ford’s intent, the template for his future westerns, though it lacks the true urgency and real originality of another Henry Fonda film, William Wellman’s The Ox-Bow Incident (1943), or Ford’s self-reflective film essay The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962).  The title, however, makes no mention of frontier violence, instead making reference to a familiar 19th century folk ballad, running as a background score throughout the movie, while also identifying the name of a secondary character who takes on some importance as the film progresses, becoming linked with the town’s future.  Ironically, it’s another song playing in what may be the most beautifully devised and profoundly affecting scene of the film, with a devout rendering of Shall We Gather at the River? playing to the sound of church bells, as Wyatt Earp (Fonda) and Clementine (Cathy Downs) take a long quiet walk to a dance at a church dedication, My Darling Clementine 1946 - a scene from the film ... - YouTube (4:52), with the church becoming a building block for the future, a sign that Tombstone is finally becoming civilized, with this scene representing the heart of a newly established community.  While Ford and his legion of followers like to think of him as a chronicler of authentic Western history, other than the gunfight itself, which did happen (though significantly differently than portrayed), the rest of the film is mythologized and is entirely fictional.  Earp and his brothers were never cattle drivers, as shown in the opening scenes, where a chance encounter on the open plains shows Old Man Clanton (Walter Brennan, who ruthlessly beats his sons with a whip, while imposing his will, “When ya pull a gun, kill a man,” suggesting otherwise is cowardice) making an offer on the herd, which Wyatt politely refuses, revealing his intentions to herd them from Mexico all the way to California, while also revealing his intentions to head into the nearby town of Tombstone that evening.  The Clantons take advantage, rustling some of their cattle after murdering the youngest brother James (Don Garner) who was left behind to keep watch, as he was too young and innocent to drink in town.  Unaware of what was transpiring, Wyatt heads into a barbershop for a shave, but gunshots ring out, with the barber running for safety, as a drunken Indian is apparently taking potshots from inside the saloon.  No one from town moves a muscle, so Wyatt takes matters into his own hands, sneaking up from behind and knocking out the perpetrator with a rock, hauling him out of the saloon feet first, railing against anyone who would serve alcohol to an Indian, then kicking the Indian out of town, basically eradicating the threat.  It should be noted that the Indian is played by Charles Stevens, a real-life grandson of Geronimo.  Treating an Indian with contempt is standard operating procedure in John Ford’s Manifest Destiny films, so this is par for the course.  Indians also appear silently, sitting outside the jailhouse or waiting for the stage, hanging around outside the saloon or working at a stagecoach station, while a couple Indians on horseback can be seen riding through the streets during one of Wyatt’s barber visits, all used as props.  Mexicans aren’t treated much differently, viewed as docile and tacitly submissive, with the exception of a firebrand saloon girl who works as a prostitute, Chihuahua (Linda Darnell, who signed a studio contract at the age of 15).  Offered the job as town marshal, Wyatt refuses, heading back to camp where he finds his brother dead (James was actually the eldest brother and lived to the ripe old age of 84), returning the next morning to take the job, deputizing his brothers, hellbent on avenging the death of their brother, with Tim Holt as Virgil and Ward Bond as Morgan Earp.   

The lay of the land reveals two competing forces, the Clanton family, which controls the cattle interest, illegally rustling cattle and then selling them over the border in Mexico, and Doc Holliday, a renowned gunslinger (and dentist, not a physician) who controls the gambling and saloon business in Tombstone, where Wyatt’s relationship to the Clantons is a frosty one, while he attempts to befriend Holliday, but he’s an ornery character who typically goes his own way.  But the dual threats continually operate under the threat of violence, without community input or consent, representing greed and self-interest, neither one figuring into any concept of communal good that Wyatt is trying to achieve.  Part of the overt message of the film comes from a visit by Wyatt to the gravesite of James, just an 18-year old kid who never had the chance to grow up, hell, probably never even had a first kiss.  Wyatt vows to make this a better place in his honor, “When we leave this country, kids like you will be able to grow up and live free.”  Taking on that onus of responsibility turns Ford’s mythical lawman into a legendary cultural hero, which may explain why this is the first film Ford shot entirely in Monument Valley, though it was partially utilized before in Stagecoach (1939), located on the northern Arizona/Utah border, nowhere near Tombstone, Arizona which is closer to the southern Mexican border.  Laying it on rather thick, Ford introduces a Shakespearean actor (Alan Mowbray as Granville Thorndyke, a traveling actor from the East) to Tombstone, a reference to the highest level of sophisticated culture, but he’s hijacked from the theater and is instead holed up in a saloon where’s he’s plied with drinks and expected to perform for the exclusive barroom entertainment of the gun-toting Clantons, who quickly grow bored with him.  When Earp and Holliday rescue him, Holliday completes the infamous Hamlet soliloquy that the actor is too scared to remember, adding an extra dimension of poignancy, with Thorndyke concuding “Shakespeare was not meant for tavern louts.”  Mirroring his visit is an appearance by a young, attractive woman from the East, Clementine, who’s been searching for Holliday.  Despite her best efforts, he orders her out of town, having made his bed with the hysterically jealous Chihuahua, and while there’s forced pressure on her to leave, the church social suggests other options, like becoming the town schoolteacher.  More trouble develops between the Earps and the Clantons, each viewing their personal disagreements as strictly a family affair, allowing no other outside interference, leading to the ultimate showdown.  Removing his marshal’s badge, what transpires is completely outside the law, regressing to the primitive side of the West where a man handles his own business with a gun.  The sequence, shot by Joseph MacDonald, is given a realistic expression, slow to develop, with no intrusive musical score, yet remains decisive in its conclusion, with Wyatt carrying out his mythical destiny, allowing him to wander the ends of the earth afterwards, riding off into the sunset.  Ford has done what he set out to accomplish, which was to provide a heroic savior for a grieving nation, resuscitating valor from the trash heaps of history, but he’d be damned if it had to be true. 

No Way Out (1950)

Joseph Mankiewicz (left), Linda Darnell, and Sidney Poitier

Sidney Poitier and Mildred Joanne Smith

NO WAY OUT                      A                    

USA  (106 mi)  1950  d:  Joseph L. Mankiewicz

Ain’t that a lot to ask of us — being better than them when we get killed proving we’re just as good?

—Lefty Jones (Dots Johnson)

Joseph L. Mankiewicz comes from a distinguished family, as his older brother Herman was a co-writer of CITIZEN KANE (1941) along with Orson Welles, while he is the great uncle to Ben, a regular host introducing films for TCM.  A prolific writer, director and producer, he was one of Hollywood’s most literate and intelligent filmmakers, winning Best Director Academy Awards two years in a row for A LETTER TO THREE WIVES (1949) and ALL ABOUT EVE (1950), the second director to accomplish that following John Ford’s awards for The Grapes of Wrath (1940) and HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY (1941), though Mankiewicz is the one and only writer/director to win successive Academy Awards as both a screenwriter and director for the same films.  He built a successful career as a screenwriter in the 30’s and 40’s for Paramount and MGM before getting the opportunity to direct in the mid 40’s for 20^th Century Fox under Darryl Zanuck, where his films developed a smart reputation for distinguished wordplay, where he had a lifelong affection for the New York theater scene.  By the time he made this film, Mankiewicz was also President of the Screen Director’s Guild during the rise of McCarthyism and the Hollywood blacklist of 1947 when the industry was attempting to eradicate Communists from their ranks.  He opposed mandatory loyalty oaths for Guild members, which led to an attempted coup by Cecil B. DeMille to have him recalled from office (DGA Quarterly Magazine | Spring 2011 | Features - Loyalty Oath), but the bid failed.  Few members opposed the oath, which was eventually written into the by-laws the following year, but they resented the compulsory aspect of it.  Nonetheless, it played a significant role in Mankiewicz refusing a second term and deciding to leave Hollywood the following year.  For whatever reasons, in a career that spans from 1929 to 1972, his name is not usually included in the pantheon of great American directors, where he is heralded more in Europe than he is at home, honored with a lifetime achievement award and an accompanying film restrospective at the 1979 Venice Film Festival.  Made at the height of his success, career-wise, what distinguishes this picture is the direct assault on the invidious effects of racism, hiding nothing, as it’s not shrouded in subtlety, where the N-word and all variations of heinous racial slurs are brazenly on display, opening the floodgates for vicious race hatred, one of the few Hollywood films to deal so realistically on such a sensitive topic, especially since black filmmakers have been virtually absent from Hollywood after the 1940’s.  Richard Widmark gets top billing as an avowed white supremacist spewing racial vitriol throughout the film, most of it targeting a single black doctor at a hospital, where the horrendous verbal assault is so incredibly offensive that nothing like this could be made in films today.  Few other directors would ever attempt to do what Mankiewicz, to his credit, excels at, co-written by Lesser Samuels, who was also a co-writer on Billy Wilder’s equally devastating ACE IN THE HOLE (1951), basing the material on his son-in-law’s experience of being a lone black doctor at that time, mirroring Jackie Robinson’s experiences breaking the color barrier in baseball, having to endure a constant stream of vicious racial attacks.  Under Mankiewicz’ direction, Widmark isn’t viewed so much as a criminal sociopath, but an extreme reflection of a larger community, which makes the film more compelling.   While Hollywood had taken a few stabs at movies depicting racism, like Elia Kazan’s PINKY (1949) or Stanley Kramer’s HOME OF THE BRAVE (1949), both of which represent liberal attempts to sympathize with the black plight, but at the expense of realism, as these are clearly white views on the black experience that reveal much more about the white perception.  Mankiewicz’ film is far more complex, notable for being the screen debut for actor Sidney Poitier (who has an uncredited role in an earlier film), who lied about his age to get the part, claiming he was 27 when he was only 22, playing a black doctor fresh out of medical school, and the object of Widmark’s ire. 

   

Interestingly, the film also features a deaf character, whose limitations figure prominently into the storyline, requiring several actors to learn sign language in order to communicate.  Despite the care and precautions in shaping the story, the film was banned outright or scenes cut out in order to be shown in certain cities around the country, fearing racial unrest, playing well in big cities, but failing miserably in small towns, while most theaters in the South refused to screen the picture under any circumstances.  Wasting little time, the film gets right into it, with white doctors at the County Hospital led by chief medical resident Dr. Daniel Wharton (Stephen McNally) seen congratulating the first black doctor at the hospital and welcoming him to their ranks, Dr. Luther Brooks (Sidney Poitier, who is really the lead character, but receives fourth billing), who just passed the state board examination to earn a license to practice, signing on as a junior resident for another year at the hospital where he trained.  Eager to work his first night shift in the hospital’s prison ward, two brothers are brought in after getting shot trying to rob a gas station, Johnny and Ray Biddle, Dick Paxton and Richard Widmark, both shot in the leg.  While Johnny is more gravely wounded, seemingly disoriented, unable to feel a lit cigarette lying on the palm of his hand, Ray is adamantly against treatment from a black doctor, immediately hurling startling racial epithets at him, the likes of which we rarely hear in movies.  First examining his eyes, thinking he may have a brain tumor, the patient dies on the table when Brooks attempts to administer a spinal tap, with Ray immediately blaming the black doctor for his brother’s death, calling it outright murder.  The ferocious tone of hatred and contempt is stark and to the point, so potently realistic that Brooks begins to question his own actions, wondering if perhaps the relentless assault to his character threw him off momentarily.  Wharton warns him not to second guess himself, reminding him that he acted professionally, but doesn’t go as far as saying he would have done the same thing, suggesting there may have been other factors.  Feeling slighted by the character assassination, Brooks wants to perform an autopsy to confirm his diagnosis, but Wharton indicates state law requires consent by the family.  When the two doctors approach Ray, he grows wildly agitated at the thought, claiming the doctors are in cahoots with one another, that they would mischaracterize the results just to get Brooks off the hook, reiterating he’s nothing more than a murderer.  Just a decade after the film was made, the theme of the 60’s was racial tolerance, with school integration a focal point in alleviating the vast economic disparities, but now since the election of Trump the sentiment has changed 180 degrees, where the theme of the modern era is back to racial intolerance.  It’s confounding how much a picture made 70 years ago brings to light a fresh perspective on a longstanding issue that still plagues us today, as Widmark’s ingrained white supremacist views, with a susceptibility to believe in unproven conspiracy theories, are perfectly in line with the most vociferous Trump supporters of today, especially those wielding automatic weapons while shouting anti-government slogans, mirroring Trump’s cry of “Fake News,” which is how the Ku Klux Klan has altered and resurrected their inflammatory fanaticism, shrouding their abominable racial views in anti-government rhetoric.  With the slogan “Make America Great Again,” Widmark’s voracious anti-black views are precisely what many of the most ardent Trump followers have in mind.  It’s impossible to watch this film today and not think of all the vile white supremacists who have crawled out from every rock and crevice in the past few years, where there has been a surge in white nationalist violence (White nationalist hate groups have grown 55% in Trump era ...).  For them, Widmark’s Ray Biddle is their proud spokesperson and role model. 

Seeking other family members who might  consent to an autopsy, Wharton and Brooks discover from police records that the deceased was married to Edie Johnson (Linda Darnell), openly suspicious of the visitors, but their kindness towards her takes her by surprise.  Darnell actually steals the film, claiming this was the only role in her lifetime that she was proud of, also appearing in John Ford’s MY DARLING CLEMENTINE (1946), but Darnell loathed Westerns, with unfortunate circumstances following her throughout her career, plagued by extortion letters, a fraudulent business manager that stole her money, her reputation tainted from ugly tabloid fodder provided by her own mother, largely exploited by the industry, living a sad life that included a longtime affair with the director, who never left his wife, so she never received the kind of appreciation and respect she was seeking, yet she is excellent in this film, carrying herself with a little attitude and swagger that no one else exhibits, and it’s apparent immediately.  Edie actually divorced Johnny over a year ago and has no love lost for the entire family, having grown up in a white slum neighborhood on the wrong side of the tracks called Beaver Canal, feeling it never leaves you even after you escape, as it has a way of making people feel cheap.  Ironically, the music playing on the radio in her rented single room is the sophisticated black jazz of Duke Ellington.  She visits Ray to persuade him to order the autopsy, but his twisted mind brings her back to her old worthless life, including an ill-advised affair they had together under his brother’s nose, telling her the doctors played her for a “chump,” as they only want it to cover up their crime, that Johnny never would have died with a white doctor, instructing her to contact Rocky (Bert Freed) in Beaver Canal, who stirs up racial animosity, planning a race riot that evening in the black neighborhood they describe as “Niggertown.”  Brooks has a sympathetic wife Cora (Mildred Joanne Smith in her lone movie appearance), living with his mother (Maude Simmons), sister Connie (Ruby Dee) and brother-in-law John (Ossie Davis), married in real life, the first picture that they worked together.  When blacks get word of what’s in store that evening, they make their own plans to initiate an attack to catch the white rabble rousers off guard.  The confrontation leaves plenty injured, with Brooks tending to a white patient at the hospital until a white woman orders him to “Keep your black hands off my boy” before spitting in his face.  After a dramatic pause, a stunned Brooks exits the premises and disappears.  Edie, meanwhile, shows up at Wharton’s doorstep in a state of drunken dismay, tended to by Wharton’s black housekeeper Gladys (Amanda Randolph, superb in her role), angry that she’s black, but too drunk to do anything about it.  By morning they’re best of friends, as Gladys simply exudes personality and has a folksy way of putting anyone at ease.  This relationship is at the heart of the film, as it reveals quite simply that once fears and differences are set aside people from differing backgrounds have a lot more in common than they suspect, finding it easy to like each other, so Edie actually represents positive growth, exhibiting signs of hope.  The same can’t be said for Ray, whose venomous hate drives his every action, escaping from the police, then kidnapping Edie, beating her into submission to call Brooks and set him up at a place where Ray will be waiting.  While there are some contrivances, it’s important to realize how well this material was actually handled in an era when no one else displayed half the insight or artistic dexterity with such a provocative subject matter.  In the same year that Mankiewicz was showered with a record 14 Academy Award nominations for ALL ABOUT EVE, winning six awards, this little film fell under the radar and is rarely mentioned, yet it’s dramatic impact is stunning, with Widmark and Poitier, friends in real life, offering stellar performances that hold up over time, portraying the opposite ends of the spectrum, both angered and frustrated by their limited influence, with circumstances challenging their manhood and self-respect.  Poitier’s dignified performance shattered stereotypes, but he wasn’t playing that idealized black man so early in his career, instead remaining conflicted, filled with exposed insecurities and flaws that leave him more human, making this a rare film experience, told intelligently and with bold assurance from Mankiewicz, who is perhaps the only American writer/director who could do justice with this material, allowing multiple revelations at every turn.  Along with John Cassavetes’ Shadows (1959), Michael Roemer’s Nothing But a Man (1964), Howard Alk’s The Murder of Fred Hampton (1971), Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep (1979), Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989), Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust (1991), and more recently Raoul Peck’s 2017 Top Ten List #3 I Am Not Your Negro, this belongs on a short list of the best films ever made about being black in America.