The Searchers

Not rated yet!
Director
Gilbert Gunn
Runtime
Release Date
1 January 1964
Genres
Overview
When three year old Willy wanders away from home he falls among thieves. They are forced to kidnap him. The police ask Dickie, his elder brother and his friend, Johnny to help in the search. Johnny's friends all join in and meet with varied adventures. The children find Willy in a disused warehouse but cannot rescue him. Three more are caught by the gang who lock them in with the now unconscious gang leader and escape with the jewels. The police, alerted by the children, capture the gang, recover the jewels and finally rescue the children, including Willy
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  • The Poz Button 45 – The Searchers + The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

    Grab your sarsaparilla and load up your six-shooter and go West, young NEET. Borzoi brings back long-time guests of the show Titus Flavius and Nick Mason to talk Westerns.

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    (Review Source)
  • The Poz Button 45 - The Searchers + The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

    Grab your sarsaparilla and load up your six-shooter and go West, young NEET. Borzoi brings back long-time guests of the show Titus Flavius and Nick Mason to talk Westerns.

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  • The Poz Button 45 - The Searchers + The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

    Grab your sarsaparilla and load up your six-shooter and go West, young NEET. Borzoi brings back long-time guests of the show Titus Flavius and Nick Mason to talk Westerns.

    RSS Feed

    Borzoi Twitter: https://twitter.com/ByzantineSnake

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    Referenced Materials:

    Check out where I got my start at the Fatherland

    Email sound clips for segments to borzoiboskovic@gmail.com

    Myth of the 20th Century

    Tales from the Trough

    Kulturkampf

    Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian

    Evola Negrofied America

    Knut Hamsun

    Alvan Fisher

    Commie Cowboys

    John Zorn (Morricone)

    Good, Bad, Weird

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    Artwork by @miekv and @Finley-Field respectively. Contact me on Twitter, Facebook, email, or Discord if you'd like to get into the Poz Button discord where we discuss movies, make artwork for the show, and occasionally just talk about what's going on in the world in a slower and more comfy atmosphere.

    Intro song is t e l e p a t h

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    (Review Source)

VJ Morton4
Right Wing Film Geek



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  • Searching for the canon

    Searching for the canon

    Stephen Metcalf has an essay at Slate on John Ford’s THE SEARCHERS with the dead giveaway title “The Worst Best Movie: Why on earth did The Searchers get canonized?” I have to place myself in the same camp as Metcalf, at least in terms of the “all-time greatest” accolades with which THE SEARCHERS is garlanded. I like the film some, but that #8 is for a very weak year, at least in the terms of the films I have seen. Only the Top 4 for that year would I unhesitatingly call “great.” Middle-of-the-pack films by Fritz Lang and Alfred Hitchcock (both of whom I much prefer to Ford in general) are ahead of THE SEARCHERS, and of the 10 years surrounding 1956, only in one other would it be in my Top 10.

    Now THE SEARCHERS starts out with the flaw that I am not the world’s #1 fan of Westerns and think John Ford had some intrinsic flaws as a filmmaker, from overscoring with hammer-over-the-head music to horribly unfunny “comic relief.” I’ve now seen the film three times (never in a theater, though), and both repeat viewings reinforced my position on it — uneven, with brilliant and unbearable sequences in about equal measure, the brilliance becoming more brilliant with time and the unbearableness becoming more unbearable.

    The early Comanche raid on the cabin is brilliantly staged and cut; Ethan’s arrival and all the various subtexts are handled with unFordian nuance and tact (like the way the sister-in-law caresses Ethan’s uniform when they leave on the raid); the family burial is quietly moving; the teepee meeting with Scar a nervy but stoic portrayal of two men who know that honor requires that they kill each other tomorrow. And John Wayne (with one major reservation noted below) gives a brilliant performance as Ethan, easily his best, as a man teetering on the edge of sanity — I don’t agree with Richard Schickel’s complaint in Schickel on Film that Wayne’s performance is not sustained. This very “unevenness” — Wayne shifting in between darkly menacing moments and his more-customary gruff geniality — is what makes the portrayal effective. You don’t know which Wayne you’re gonna get, and when he can keep the mask of sanity on.

    But ohmigawd do big chunks of THE SEARCHERS blow big chunks. The scenes with the Indian bride Luke just made me wince, played in a register that makes Butterfly McQueen look like Angela Davis. Lord knows, I am a flaming reactionary with no sympathy for feminist and noble-Indians schools of social/film criticism; but sometimes you gotta give the devil her due. I’ll overlook pretty much anything in the name of excitement or a joke, but these scenes are witless, which makes its patronizing attitudes embarassing. When Jeffrey Hunter kicks Luke out of their “bed” and down a sand dune, while Ethan chuckles along with a jolly air, it just makes you think “maybe Leonard Peltier had a point.”

    Nor is this admittedly short sequence the only flaw in this vein. Several of the characters are just as caricatured as Luke: Vera Miles’ suitor, Mose, the cavalry unit’s leader, Mr. Jorgenson. Those who play these cartoons play down to them well enough, I suppose, but I didn’t laugh once, primarily because the film isn’t a spoof. In every scene involving Mose, I think ‘what could Howard Stern’s Stuttering John do with this role?’ Jeffrey Hunter is a callow nonentity; compare Michael Caine and Sean Connery in John Huston’s THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING to see what can be made of a boys’ genre piece about two men on an epic quest, one of whom goes batty, when the casting is strong for both lead parts. The fight between the suitors seemed ritualistic in all the worst senses of the word. Maybe chicks in the 1870s (or 1950s) were different, but that closeup of Vera Miles beaming (in her white wedding dress, no less!!) as her two men fight over her, just seems to me like the worst sort of patronizing macho wish-fulfillment that feminists would like to think defines the male mind (sic).

    The last significant plot point, Wayne’s picking up Natalie Wood, is much praised, but to me and Metcalf, it just seems like an arbitrary wuss-out and a way to create a critical puzzle that can never be solved. Nevertheless, there is no gainsaying the famous last shot of THE SEARCHERS, though its point — the gap between the civilizer and civilization, and how the man who creates order does so on behalf of an institution toward which he is fundamentally an outsider — was explored much more effectively by Ford in THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE (here’s G-Money on that film).

    But such skepticism is a minority view among hard-core film buffs, as Metcalf notes, making many of the same criticisms I just did. For a quarter-century now, THE SEARCHERS has consistently ranked among the top films of all-time in critics polls. In the decennial Sight & Sound poll (as close to a BCS system as the film-geek world has) THE SEARCHERS first placed in the Top 10 in 1982, when the poll was all critics. Since then a shift and a gradual dropoff has occurred. The 1992 poll had Ford’s film placing fifth among critics, but nowhere in the Top 10 among filmmakers. The 2002 poll showed the same split, though at a somewhat lower level, with THE SEARCHERS finishing tied for 11th among critics but barely in the Top 30 for filmmakers. There’s no doubting THE SEARCHERS’ influence on a handful of American directors, but, as the S&S Poll numbers above show, its cachet among film-makers is slipping and now primarily belongs to critics. Metcalf kind of acknowledges this, referring only to the first generation of film-school-educated directors. I think this hints at an explanation for THE SEARCHERS continuing popularity among critics.

    In his very good essay on Ford, Schickel makes the point that many critics of his generation (he compares his reaction to generational cohorts Lindsay Anderson and Andrew Sarris) “had his eyes opened to the notion that movies might be something more than an instrument for fantastic escape from childhood constraints, picked up his first hints of film’s larger possibilities as an expressive form, and made his first inchoate emotional responses to that form … because of John Ford’s pictures.” I wrote a little bit below about the Warner cartoons and myself, noting that one of the first things a critic does is grapple with the (largely, but not totally, pre-critical) opinions of his childhood. Such eminent critics and champions of Ford today include Jonathan Rosenbaum and Dave Kehr, who would also fit Schickel’s description, at least in terms of the raw data of year of birth. Though it doesn’t focus on THE SEARCHERS, Rosenbaum’s 2004 essay in Rouge on Ford’s THE SUN SHINES BRIGHT is a perfect example of combining an intensely personal boyhood love, autobiography, and one’s adult sensibility.

    But with me, no. Ford made his last fiction film the year I was born and had died before I ever heard of him. My eyes were first opened to cinephilia by Hitchcock and Wilder from the past, Kubrick and Scorsese from the then-present, and Bergman, Fellini and Kurosawa among the furriners. I don’t think these factors are unrelated. Living my boyhood in another country, I don’t think I ever watched more of any Western than a TV promo clip. The whole genre just seemed bizarre to me. Also John Wayne was not the mythic presence, the very embodiment of “us,” that he was for Americans. While I no longer dismiss the Western tout court, the mythic love that Wayne and Ford could once tap into, and the residues of which remain forever, cannot be assented to, only unconsciously absorbed.

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  • More searching

    More searching

    Jim Emerson at the Chicago Sun Times blog rips Stephen Metcalf a new one for his Slate essay on THE SEARCHERS, which I used a jumping-off point for a post of my own the other day. I link in the interests of fairness, of course. Some observations and reactions of my own, as someone who generally would take Metcalf’s side in the dispute over the merits of THE SEARCHERS.

    Emerson does make some good points. Metcalf is a bit too reliant on citing Pauline Kael, and a bit unspecific in his complaints. It IS anti-intellectual for Metcalf to point to Ford’s personal inarticulateness or to imply that the formal academic study of film is a joke.

    But I don’t really think Emerson quite grapples with what is most offputting in the playing of THE SEARCHERS. Metcalf made that point (though he didn’t go into much specifics), and every example that Emerson cites in specific rebuttal (the paragraph that begins “Like his model Pauline Kael…” ) comes in the film’s main threads and/or the principal characters. But that’s not where the truly thumpingly awful stuff is. I named about a half-dozen shockingly bad or ham-fisted performances — overripe clowns, offensive stereotypes or empty suits. I don’t think Emerson even alludes to one of them (in fairness, he’s not answering me specifically, but I don’t claim any great originality. I’ve never met a SEARCHERS skeptic who didn’t quickly alight on Hank Worden’s Mose or Beulah Archuletta’s Look).

    It’s not persuasive to say of the acting in THE SEARCHERS that “it’s impressionistic or balletic.” But these are descriptive terms not evaluative ones. As Leonard Pith-Garnell would say … it’s jolly bad ballet. Nor does pointing to the influence of silent films mean much — THE SEARCHERS is, after all, a sound film, and in the late-20s and early-30s sound film very quickly developed a different, much-lower-keyed acting style than the silent film for some very good and inherent reasons.

    Not that it has anything to do with THE SEARCHERS, as Emerson would say, but he simply gets politics all wrong. Shockingly wrong. And he rattles on about Ford, Wayne and politics for long enough to make me think it does matter. It is not true that “a staunch Roosevelt Democrat” as Emerson (correctly) identifies John Ford is, “what Republicans today would call a radical Hollywood liberal” — unless Emerson is simply using “Roosevelt Democrat” as a synonym for “good” or “on the right side of history” (which is not too far from what some ahistoric born-yesterday types do in fact do). If “Roosevelt” refers to the historical person and not an amorphous ideal that shifts with the passing wind, the claim of Emerson’s is indefensible. No debate possible.

    1. In a review of CINDERELLA MAN last year, I touched on a big part of what distinguished Roosevelt from today’s liberals — his attitude toward the welfare state, which Hollywood liberals since the 1960s have believed to be a mean-spirited, blame-the-victim stance.
    2. Roosevelt expanded executive powers during wartime in ways that would make current Hollywood liberals blanche. He authorized military tribunals, and a half-dozen executions took place pursuant to them. He approved and defended a mass ethnic roundup (Michelle Malkin’s calls for racial profiling are nothing compared to what FDR did). Before the US involvement in the war, he subverted and contravened the Neutrality Acts in every way he could and at least one of his orders (a shoot-on-sight order against all German ships) constitutes an act of war under international law. If the Hollywood liberals of today had to deal with Roosevelt, they’d be on their knees in thanksgiving for Dubya.
    3. Roosevelt also didn’t lift a finger over segregation, and not from ignorance, as he wintered in Warm Springs, Ga., and took political support from the Herman Talmadges and Theodore Bilbos of the world. He was the candidate of the guys with Confederate flags in their pickup trucks, as Howard Dean tried to say he wanted to be before being shouted down by the racialism of today’s Democrats. FDR did not believe that morality on segregation was worth the destruction of the New Deal coalition, as have the Hollywood liberals of the 60s and since, to their subsequent chagrin.
    4. Roosevelt signed and acted on the 1940 Smith Act, which made it a crime to advocate the violent overthrow of the US government. The statute survived almost 20 years and provided the legal basis for much of the anti-Communist witch-hunts [sic] that Emerson so righteously decries.

    I could go on — mentioning Roosevelt threat to pack the Supreme Court or his refusal to increase Jewish immigration quotas and turn away the SS St. Louis — but this is more than sufficient for my point, which is that Emerson, like many film critics when they talk politics, is talking out the top of his hat (or the other end, as it were). There is no way that a Roosevelt Democrat is what Republicans today would call a radical Hollywood liberal. None. And what makes Emerson’s political analysis sadder is that Ford is apparently very much the sort of man who serves as an explanatory example of why FDR would be despised by today’s liberals — namely the reaction to the New Left and the student movements of the 60s. Ironically, Emerson himself realizes this, when he (approvingly) cites Joseph McBride’s of Ford as “a longtime progressive, he had turned to the right because of the war and his general unhappiness with the way America had not lived up to his vision of its potential.” Or as Ronald Reagan put it: “I didn’t leave the Democrats; the Democrats left me.” But instead, we get the (absolutely unsupported) assertion that “today, anyone claiming that America has not lived up to its potential is most likely to be accused of being a radical left-winger” — a claim one is not inclined to believe given how superficial Emerson’s knowledge of actual political spectrums seems to be. And it’s a claim which turns Ford into a man fundamentally insane. Because if the right and “reactionaries” are as Emerson describes, why would the war and the 60s generation have caused a man “unhapp[y] with the way America had not lived up to his vision of its potential” turn right, meaning toward those who “defend[] the status quo as evidence of America’s innate greatness, and proof that we do not have to change or become ‘better’.” It’s like deciding your body has not lived up to your vision of its physical potential, and then turning toward the cupcake and potato-chip lobby. (Sorry … a really good analogy escapes me, but hopefully that’ll at least demonstrate how wack Emerson’s theory of Ford’s politics is).

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  • Ignoble savages
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    Ignoble savages

    THE PROPOSITION (John Hillcoat, Australia, 2006) — 3

    Maybe seeing this right after such a (mostly) melancholy “late” film as PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION made this 19th-century-set Australian revenge “western” seem more like an continuous act of adolescent brutalism than it really was. But I doubt it. Any movie that starts with a title card apologizing for historical depictions of Aborigines will get my back up, even if I’d just seen THE SEARCHERS.

    The plot is simple — one of two arrested Irish outlaw brothers (Guy Pearce) is given his freedom, on condition that he hunt down and kill a third brother (Danny Huston) while the other arrested brother (Richard Wilson) is held hostage. But the point is simpler. What this is is, O my brothers, is a self-hating pretentious pile of revisionist twaddle — I hereby coin the term “hatriotism” to describe this sort of Western obsession with rubbing our face in the bad shit in our history. We are the savages, it turns out.

    Guaranteed, everything you ever saw in a Roy Rogers western will be demystified to show how ugly it “really” was. Every man will sweat like a pig and have a four-day growth (imagine Sergio Leone without the directorial chops); all the clothes will be filthy and rumpled; meat will be cut in an open-air butcher’s; the hostage brother will be a small and frail; the killings of people will be really gory; somebody will piss or shit in nature very early on; when “Rule Britannia” is sung, it’ll be sung by bloodstained drunks (in case we miss the point, when we get to the line “Britons never will be slaves,” the director thoughtfully cuts to a pile of dead bodies); the homestead must have a white-picket fence, of course. And a character will be beaten up while having the Union Jack wrapped over his head in (there’s symbolism there, I think). John Hurt gives the second-worst supporting “character” performance by an actor named “Hurt” in the past year — an overacted chunk of menacing giggling and mugging so hammy that kosher Jews probably shouldn’t watch this movie.

    Yes, THE PROPOSITION really is this one-dimensional and relentless — the equivalent of a little boy shoving a rat in your face. No, it’s a (chronologically) older boy doing the same with pride and expecting you to consider him a deep critical thinker for it. This is all supposed to stand for how mean the honkies were to the Indigenous People, and how our civilization is built on genocide and conquest and brutality … blah, blah, blah. And it wouldn’t be a hatriotic film without a foppish civil servant who … surprise … turns out the most cruel of all (Victor slaps forehead). Or without a perfumed woman (Emily Watson) who keeps a tea set, a grandfather clock and a Christmas tree with snow (importing England to the Colonies, you understand; and it’s summer too, in December … snicker). The rich colonial bitch, of course, must pay for it by being raped, with the attacker entering right at the moment of the Christmas dinner prayer; and if she’s going to be rescued it has to be while the rapist is on top of her (characters in hatriotic tracts have great dramatic flair and timing, you understand). There’s even a portrait of Queen Victoria’s coronation, for the symbol-dense.

    In a movie that’s nothing but lumpy moments, the last is the piece de resistance — someone who’s been shot going outside to sit in the lotus position so he can die while watching the sunset with the man who killed him (rhyming with an earlier scene of watching the sunset; easy parallellism matters more than even life itself to a hatriotism character). Pointedly the last line is “what are you gonna do now.” No answer is forthcoming. I guess that’s deep.

    But G-Money dissents.

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  • Charlton Heston can’t RIP
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    Charlton Heston can’t RIP

    Here is the Washington Times obituary, a second-day piece for Monday’s paper. Heston died so late Saturday night, that all the late-night crew could get before the last print run was a four-paragraph brief noting the bare facts. (I insisted Sunday that if the Washington Times ever needed a staff-byline on an actor’s obituary, it would be for Charlton Heston, and I’d have written it myself if I’d had to.)

    Heston was a political figure and by design, we had a lot of that material up high. But there also was a Newsbusters account, the basis for the following paragraphs:

    Such devotion offended liberal firebrands, however. Filmmaker Michael Moore sprung what many considered an unfair on-camera interview on Mr. Heston at the actors home in the 2002 film “Bowling for Columbine.” Mr. Heston was starting to display neurological symptoms at the time.
    Yesterday, some progressive bloggers offered less than flattering comments about Mr. Heston’s passing.
    Warner Todd Huston, who monitors liberal media for the conservative watchdog Newsbusters, yesterday drew attention to the Daily Kos, citing dozens of contributors who called Mr. Heston a “gun nut” — that’s one of the printable epithets — shortly after his death was made public.
    “Too often people confuse the politics with the man and the passion for the issues overwhelms civil behavior,” Mr. Huston said.

    But what made the awful crap worse, as Stacy points out, is that so many liberals felt a need to say, on this day of all days, that Heston was a bad actor (though I don’t believe Fire Dog Lake or the Yglesias commenters are doing anything but rationalizing their political judgments; you want to retch at stuff like this). Acting tastes differ and acting fashions change (more on that in a moment), but how narrow must a man’s moral sight be to waste neurons, silicon space, and perfectly good 1s and 0s ranting about what a bad actor a man (supposedly) is on the day of his death. Though political figures by definition have mixed legacies, and noting this in a respectful fashion is quite fair even in an obit, I devoutly believe in “de mortuis nil nisi bonum,”¹ particularly about artists, and doubt the moral sanity and basic decency of those who do not — one reason I doubt that moral sanity and basic decency are widespread among liberals. (In the interests of equal time, here’s a piece from a Huffington Post writer that isn’t the usual bile, though the commenters note that it’s the exception even on that site.)

    When I found out late Saturday night that Heston had died, the movie I decided to watch was MAJOR DUNDEE, the extended version of which is I think was the only Heston movie I have but never seen. It’s an intermittently brilliant if ultimately unsatisfactory Sam Peckinpah film. A story with some resemblance to THE SEARCHERS, Heston plays a bottom-of-the-rung Union cavalry commander in New Mexico near the end of the Civil War who goes hunting Apaches to avenge a slaughter at another fort and saved some kidnapped children — and let’s say he cuts some corners from the very beginning. The film looks gorgeous (Peckinpah could make dust and grime sing better than anybody not named Sergio Leone), the action set pieces, particularly the French lancers, has Peckinpah’s staging and framing, and Heston has one of his better characters and a very strong co-star in Richard Harris as a Confederate prisoner and former West Point colleague (the relationship and push-pull of male honor between the two is the dominant theme). But it’s very hard to react to what it is because even the extended version is so plainly the victim of studio butchery — the obviously expository voice-over is as off-toned and ill-fitting as anything in Bresson or Ed Wood, e.g., and supporting characters drop in and drop out without rhyme or reason — that you’re thinking more about what MAJOR DUNDEE could have been than what it is. Heston tried to save it from cost overruns and Columbia’s midstream budget-squeezing by deferring his salary, an unheard of mid-shoot gesture at the time and an indication of how much he believed in this project.

    But as to Heston as an actor … in his terrific appreciation of Heston for the American Spectator, Stacy makes a very sensible point about any actor who was such a enormous star as Heston … that it can’t be just looks:

    HESTON’S VOICE WAS his greatest asset as an actor. He was handsome, but so were many other actors. He had the muscular physique required for such sword-and-sandals epics as Ben Hur, but directors never had a shortage of brawny leading men, and neither Steve Reeves nor Johnny Weismuller ever won Oscars. It was his deep, resonant voice that set Heston apart from the Hollywood herd.

    Heston also had a voice — a voice that had resonance and timbre that, combined with his physique (I’m talking about his frame, his facial shape and the way he carried both) screamed authority and gravity. Or as Stacy puts it:

    His stage training gave Heston the gravitas necessary to seem believably natural when speaking the almost comically stilted dialogue required by his many historical roles. (Sample line from The Ten Commandments: “What change is there in me? Egyptian or Hebrew, I am still Moses. These are the same hands, the same arms, the same face that was mine a moment ago.”)

    Even in schlocky sci-fi films, Heston’s voice had the power to turn an otherwise absurd phrase — “Soylent Green is people!” — into a memorable line. Roddy McDowell was a fine actor, yet no one ever quotes his dialogue from Planet of the Apes. Instead, they remember Heston: “Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!” A silly sentence somehow infused with significance, simply because Heston said it.

    I swear to God that it is a coincidence that Stacy and the Times quoted almost the same two lines — they were such clear-cut choices for quotation. The first-named line was cited when people were discussing Heston on Sunday — it’s a guttural cry of despair that a lesser voice could not make so memorable, even for parody’s sake (there’s an SNL sketch parodying Heston). As for the second line, it’s the first time that the apes have heard humans speak, and hearing them from the Charlton Heston voice, you better believe it shook them down to the bones as much as an ape talking to us today would.

    Now, I’m gonna say this carefully. Heston was definitely a Big Actor — and I’m not referring to his size or his build (though they’re not irrelevant; his body fit his voice) but to his voicy and dramatic style. It was made for larger-than-life heroic roles, and there was no better actor of this type than Heston. But it’s nevertheless a style that’s somewhat out-of-fashion, for reasons having nothing to do with the NRA, Time Warner and Ice-T, or any of that. As I say, it’s perfectly sane — if a bit tactless on this day — not to like Heston as an actor or to note that he made some rather bad movies (as did most stars of his era or the studio era).

    But though my aesthetic preference is for more-understated styles, part of being a great actor is knowing what you can do well and getting that roles that fit you. I once wrote the following in denouncing the 2001 desecration remake of PLANET OF APES, with Mark Wahlberg in the lead:

    And then we get to the lead performer. Now it needs no saying that Charlton Heston in the original overacted in that muscular-barechested-hero sort of way, but at least he’s acting (in fact, Heston is quite effective in those roles he’s had where his Acting is appropriate). Mark Wahlberg seems like he’s hardly interested. To cite Jonah [Goldberg] again, he’s giving a Henry V, loin-girding speech to his troops and it’s in the tone of a mechanic telling someone when his car will be ready. Then he says “c’mon, let’s go” (or something very similar) as though he was the QB breaking huddle at a pickup game of touch football.Wahlberg has all the range of a plate of grits and half the flavor.

    John Wayne said “I play John Wayne in every picture regardless of the character, and I’ve been doing all right, haven’t I?” Now Heston had far more range than Wayne, but he was still an icon who could never do a light romantic comedy, say, or play an outright heavy. But **if a role called for an icon,** there was nobody better in his generation (his peers were usually about 10 years older — Wayne, Cagney, Peck, Mitchum, Douglas, Lancaster). My turkbud Bilge Ebiri once said that “if any film needed Charlton Heston in the lead, it was PLANET OF THE APES.” It was Heston’s unforgettable presence and heroic performance turned a lengthy Twilight Zone episode into a classic.

    Kenneth Branagh has tried every casting gimmick known to man or beast, often with ludicrous results, but the one that paid off the most handsomely was having Heston play the Player King in his 1996 film of HAMLET, when Heston recorded on film for all time what he could really do as an actor, with the most stylized and greatest of English-language writers. I couldn’t find a way of working mention of that role into the Times obit, but I think it was his best performance, if not so well-known as Ben-Hur, El Cid, Moses, etc. Anybody who thinks Heston couldn’t act is invited to watch this until he repents:

    ————————————————–
    ¹ There are some spectacular exceptions of course — I doubt I’ll feel too bad on the day of Charles Manson’s or Fidel Castro’s death (Father Martin Fox once explained to me how to licitly pray for Castro’s death: “pray that he be in Heaven soon”). But nobody who would compare being on the wrong side of the relatively low-stakes issues of American politics for being a murderer or a political dictator has a sense of proportion or self-skepticism that I feel bound to respect.

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    April 7, 2008 - Posted by | Charlton Heston |

    6 Comments »

    1. It’s odd that Heston became so anathema to the LEft and so beloved on the Right, because the films he’s best known for were practcally infomercials for the Daily Kos’ pet issues!

      “Soylent Green” has to be Planned Parenthood’s favorite movie (there are just too many dang PEOPLE!).

      “Planet of the Apes” is a no-nukes commercial buried inside a “Twilight Zone” episode.

      “The Omega Man” says that the evil U.S. government is going to annihilate mankind via germ warfare.

      What more could he have done to ingratiate himself with the Left?

      Comment by astorian | April 7, 2008 | Reply

    2. Glancing around some forums discussing Heston’s death, I was struck with the realization that if not for the Internet, I might not know that people are as truly vile as they are. With no Internet, I surely wouldn’t have access to countless comments from people celebrating his death because they didn’t agree with his political stance. You’d think there weren’t scores of left-wing actors who talk about politics as if they were life-long senators or renowned scholars on their topics of interest. As an NRA member myself, it makes sense to assume that if people cheerily celebrate Heston’s death, then I became a celebrity, they’d cheer mine, too. Also, see Michael Moore’s web page for one hell of a cheap shot and middle finger aimed at the departed.

      I’ve bumped Major Dundee to the top of my Netflix queue. Never seen it, and now seems like an ideal time.

      Comment by James Frazier | April 7, 2008 | Reply

    3. As soon as I heard of Heston’s death late Saturday night, I wrote a piece that I posted on Screengrab. I couldn’t overlook his political leanings altogether, but I mentioned them only to reference how they had colored the perception of many viewers who came to his films in recent years. I may not have agreed with some of his ideals, but I never let that detract from my appreciation of his work. He was one of the last stars who was capable of being larger than life, and a much better actor than many gave him credit for being. To skim over this in order to engage in political points-scoring, especially now, is both cheap and tasteless.

      Comment by Paul C. | April 7, 2008 | Reply

    4. One striking thing to me is that he seemed to be a stand up guy. I know that whenever nearly anyone dies people start gushing about them, but Heston seemed to always be well-liked and respected for years.

      Considering his high-profile as the NRA prez it would be tricky to write about him and not at least allude to it, but the way he is commonly addressed you’d think his gun stance was one of an extreme minority, on par with those who think child molestation should be a misdemeanor. I suppose that a pro-gun view IS an extreme minority among journalists, but not among your average American, so it’s quite annoying for me to read all these obits that reference his politics as if he were a card carrying American Nazi.

      I think that we as viewers might even simplify celebrities based on politics. I’m a Republican and all but most of my friends aren’t, and I’ve met Republicans and conservatives that I absolutely can’t stand. Maybe I’d have hated Heston if I knew him, and would prefer the company of George Clooney. I doubt it, but it’s wholly possible!

      Comment by James Frazier | April 8, 2008 | Reply

    5. James- for what it’s worth, Heston doesn’t seem to have based his friendships on politics, either. He worked several times with Vanessa Redgrave, and he thought the world of her, both as an actress and a person, though they probably would have come to blows if they ever talked politics.

      Comment by astorian | April 8, 2008 | Reply

    6. I’m a left wing film geek, and doubtless you and I would–as the last post on this thread says of Heston and Redgrave–come to blows if we discussed politics.

      But I appreciate and agree with your views on Chuck Heston. Not only do I view him as a fine man and one truly dedicated to his art–based on everything I’ve seen of him and his personal integrity stretching from civil rights work on, I had personal dealings with him and found him a man of exemplary character and temperment. He graciously wrote a piece on gun issues for a magazine I worked with that is viewed as liberal, and then complimented the magazine even though he disagreed with much of what it said.

      He deserved more praise than he received, and NONE of the derision.

      Comment by WA | May 15, 2010 | Reply


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  • “Duke” Morrison as Metapolitical Icon John Wayne
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    [1]4,924 words

    The lighted pixels never go dark on John Wayne in the TV sphere. In the four decades since his passing, one can turn on a TV set at any time of day or night and there will be a John Wayne film being played on some channel.

    When looking at John Wayne’s performances, many critics point out that John Wayne always plays John Wayne. However, he himself said, “That guy you see on the screen isn’t really me. I’m Duke Morrison, and I never was and never will be a film personality like John Wayne. I know him well. I’m one of his closest students.”[1] [2] He never changed his name to John Wayne, didn’t instinctively respond to the name “John,” and registered for the draft during the Second World War under his Morrison name.

    Duke Morrison’s character John Wayne represented many things, the nuance of which will be further described below, but on the surface, John Wayne represented the white American ethnic group, as well as industriousness, seriousness of purpose, honesty, and courage. The character John Wayne was, and is, the embodiment of American manhood in its perfected form.

    Looking back at John Wayne’s career, one can see that the entire Western genre was carried on his shoulders. After he passed away, the number of Western films and TV shows dropped off. Westerns that were produced after his passing, like Silverado [3] (1985), never quite capture the magic that John Wayne brought. One possible reason for this loss of sparkle is that the dialogue in post-Wayne Westerns became crass and vulgar. Another possible reason is that Western movies have become afflicted by Negro-tokenism as in Silverado, Unforgiven [4] (1992), and The Magnificent Seven [5](2016). Furthermore, post-Wayne, an excessively romantic view of the Indians has crept into the genre, as in Dances with Wolves [6] (1990). Even the word “cowboy” was defined by John Wayne. During his lifetime, the word implied virtue and integrity; after his death, the word retreated back to the delinquent gang of insults from whence it came.

    John Wayne’s example has even influenced this author’s life choices, although I cannot even remotely presume to describe myself as the perfect embodiment of American manhood. I’ve probably been in more schoolyard fistfights than necessary due to the example of John Wayne’s many righteous fisticuffs broadcast on Saturday matinee reruns. When I played the trumpet in my middle school band, I mastered the themes [7] to The Comancheros [8] (1961) and [9]Rio Bravo [10] (1959). He also influenced my choices about what to do during the summers of my childhood and adolescence. I didn’t take the easy opportunities provided by my family to go to church camp, where one had an opportunity to flirt with a large group of young ladies while time-wasting for The Lord. Instead, I focused (more or less – girls still were a distraction) on becoming an Eagle Scout. Once I learned to drive and had my Eagle Scout Badge, I spent my summers working on a cattle ranch on the western Great Plains. When I was in the Army in Iraq and other overseas locations, I made decisions based on what I thought John Wayne would or would not do; this probably sounds both more reckless and awesome than it actually was.

    Duke Morrison, aka John Wayne, was also a man of the Right. He self-declared as a man of the Right; he admitted it up front and often. Towards the end of the Second World War, he became politically active and served four terms as President of the anti-Communist Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals. Wayne’s closest friends were among Hollywood’s most strident anti-Communists, including Ward Bond [11] (1903-1960) and the very attractive Hedda Hopper [12] (1885-1966). He didn’t like Senator Ted Kennedy. Duke didn’t even like the New Deal, and publicly supported Richard Nixon from 1960 until Nixon’s resignation.

    Origins, Iowa Privilege, and Personal Life

    John Wayne was born Marion Morrison to Mary Alberta Brown and Clyde Morrison in Winterset, Iowa in 1907. His mother’s lineage was colonial stock Pennsylvanian and Irish. His father was of Scots-Irish and old New England Puritan/Yankee stock. [13] His grandfather [14] had served in the Union Army during the Civil War. John Wayne’s parents had a rocky marriage, and his father had a rough time making his career as a pharmacist work. The family bounced around Iowa until they decided to farm on some land in California that Wayne’s real estate agent grandfather owned.

    By the time the Morrison family got to California, the American frontier was closed. All the remaining open land was in the desert. The Morrison’s farm failed due to the harsh conditions, and so the family moved to Glendale, California, where Wayne would grow up right next to the central location of the nascent motion picture industry.

    Although Wayne’s family continuously hovered near poverty during his childhood, his background was really a big advantage to him. He had Iowa Privilege. He came from a culture that rewarded honesty and hard work. Wayne was indeed honest; his biographers all attest to this. If, for example, he said he met the famous Wild West lawman Wyatt Earp, researchers determined that he probably did meet him. His parents also remained married until Duke was out of the house, despite the fact that his mother was a grievance-collecting woman who was difficult to like. John also made his own luck. He took good advice every time he heard it. His biographer, Scott Eyman, describes many instances where Wayne took good advice, including deciding not to be cruel, learning self-defense, continuing to find work in films even when they were “B” movies, and maintaining a good public image.

    Duke was acting as early as high school. He got his foot in the door of the film industry in the prop department, through his college football coach’s contacts. Eventually he moved into minor acting roles; there, he got a credit as Duke Morrison in the 1927 movie, Seeing Stars [15]. Eventually, he was noticed by the director Raoul Walsh, and the first movie he starred in as “John Wayne” was The Big Trail [16] (1930). This film has sweeping cinematography, but is fundamentally flawed. The plot plods along like a wagon train drawn by oxen, and is as dry as the desert. The soundtrack is also lacking. To top it off, the film was released right after the Stock Market crash of October 1929. As a result, Wayne’s first starring role was a flop, and it sent him into the B-movie circuit for a decade.

    However, this was still a blessing for Wayne. He became a household name to young moviegoers throughout the 1930s. His work ethic helped, too. Wayne worked 12- to 14-hour days, and often did his own stunts. It was in the B movies that Duke Morrison became the physically imposing and graceful John Wayne. He also behaved professionally. He showed up to do a scene knowing his lines, and learned everything else involved in making a movie, such as where to put the props, lights, and so on.

    John Wayne’s career revived when he was picked to play the Ringo Kid [17] in John Ford’s classic Stagecoach [18] (1939). His flashy entrance [19] in that film remains one of his finest. As the camera zooms in while he twirls a rifle, it is an example of teamwork, and the most important aspect of professionalism: mastering the basics. Indeed, the prop department had to modify the rifle to make it twirl without getting caught. The cameraman needed to adjust both the focus and angle to catch it, while Wayne had to move gracefully and make the just the right expressions while following the camera. Wayne also understood that every scene is dependent upon two factors: what the camera’s lens can pick up and how that image will impact an audience.

    Wayne was married three times. All of his wives were of white, New World Spanish background (Hispanic is not a race). He would come to regret divorcing his first wife. His second wife was a train wreck of personal issues, and she dragged him through a nasty public divorce. His third wife was a solid helpmeet, even though they eventually separated but did not formally divorce. Duke also drank a great deal. He liked Mexico – indeed, all of Latin America – and its people. He enjoyed manly pursuits, especially sailing. He was well-read, and was talented at playing cards and chess. Off the set, though, he had a hard time figuring out what to do with himself.

    John Wayne also struggled with cancer. He smoked an average of six packs of cigarettes per day and lost a lung in 1964. He also starred in the 1956 epic, The Conqueror [20], that was filmed downwind of an area that had been used for nuclear weapons testing. Many of the cast and crew got cancer or died of cancer [21]. Wayne was no different. He was felled [22] by stomach cancer in 1979. In both cases, he fought the disease as hard as he could. After losing a lung, he still did many of his own stunts, and he wore a wetsuit to appear to look more fleshed-out at his final public appearance [23].

    Unavoidable Fodder for the Comments Section: My Opinion of John Wayne’s Work

    Everyone’s got an opinion about John Wayne’s films, so I’ll brush over what I think here and dive into his really serious works further on – there will be overlap. The best of his bad movies is probably The Big Trail, as well as Angel and the Bad Man [24] (1947). My favorite movie, which is fun from start to finish, is The Quiet Man [25](1952), where the leading lady was the goddess Maureen O’Hara. My second favorite is Fort Apache [26] (1948), followed by Hatari! [27] (1962). His best movie is The Searchers [28] (1956), and other great movies include Stagecoach [18](1939), The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance [29] (1962), The Sands of Iwo Jima [30] (1949), True Grit [31] (1969), and The Cowboys [32] (1972). The best of his more obscure films, in my view, is The Sea Chase [33] (1955). My favorite movies where Wayne had smaller parts are The Longest Day [34] (1960) and How the West Was Won [35] (1962). But I dislike Rio Bravo [10] (1959) and its various remakes.

    John Wayne as the Personification of (White) American Manhood in Different Situations

    Duke Morrison created John Wayne between his first starring roles in 1930 until he became an A-List actor in 1939. With Red River [36] (1948), Duke had become an expert at playing John Wayne. With that in mind, we can see how an archetype of the epitome of (white) American Manhood behaves in various situations. As the embodiment of American Manhood, John Wayne wrestled with modern situations in Island in the Sky [37] (1953) and The High and the Mighty [38] (1954). Many of John Wayne’s movies are nostalgic – (white) Americans making North America their own through Manifest Destiny.

    Manifest Destiny was a metapolitical idea whereby Americans believed that Divine Providence had foreordained that white settlers should continue westward until they occupied the entire North American continent. This meant not just the conquest of America itself, but expansion across the Pacific as well. Indeed, during the Spanish-American War (1898), the biggest American imperial gains were not in Cuba, on whose behalf the war was alleged to be waged, but rather in the Pacific. Americans would go on to capture parts of Samoa in 1899. After the Second World War, the Americans absorbed even more Pacific islands, and for a time even turned Japan into a semi-colony [39]. Indeed, the fact that America chose to fight the Communists in Korea has shades of Manifest Destiny. The US Marines at the Chosin Reservoir [40] were not much different than Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at Little Big Horn. And when Kennedy was inaugurated as President in 1960, Manifest Destiny was still ongoing – which was part of the reason for his involvement in Vietnam.

    Nearly every Western that John Wayne starred in has Manifest Destiny [41] as a central theme, although later on his Westerns explored other ideas as well. This is so obvious that not much needs to be mentioned about it. It is likewise clear that John Wayne’s Pacific War movies – such as They Were Expendable [42] (1945), Back to Bataan [43] (1945), and Flying Leathernecks [44] (1951) – were all Westward Expansion movies, with “the Japs” serving as Indians. Admittedly, there are other issues explored in these films, but the main idea remained “Westward Ho!”

    America’s expansion across the Pacific was different from its earlier expansion in one vital regard: the natives didn’t vanish. This created a new set of circumstances for the American public.
    As the Cold War picked up in Asia, Americans realized they had to justly rule and valorously defend the racially different Orientals that they had only just previously been interning and killing. The films which deal with this contradiction include The Barbarian and the Geisha [45] (1958), Donavan’s Reef [46] (1963), and The Green Berets [47] (1968). John Wayne’s films from this period are similar to the view of Asia that we get in other works of the period, especially those of James A. Michener.

    Duke Morrison and Military Service

    Although he registered for the draft, John Wayne didn’t enlist during the Second World War. He did go overseas with the USO on morale tours, but he didn’t take the oath and wear real stripes. Wayne would come to regret this decision later in life. Since the war, military service has come to be seen as a marker of manhood in American life. It is believed that this sets a person apart and above all others.

    However, as a man who has served in combat, and given that men (and some women) in my family have served in every conflict from the Global War on Terror back to the Spanish-American War, I can say this is all hogwash. Every military career is swiftboatable [48], and John Wayne’s would have been especially so. When the war broke out, Wayne was 35 and a lifelong smoker. He likely wouldn’t have qualified for the Infantry or as Combat Aircrew. If he had ended up in the Coastal Artillery Corps [49] in Los Angeles. he might have served in 1942’s Battle of Los Angeles [50], which would have made him a laughingstock as he took increasingly public pro-Vietnam War political stances in the 1960s. Had he joined the Signal Corps and made movies, he still would have been criticized. There, he’d have been moved around for photo ops and training films, but would not have seen much action. He was in an impossible position.

    Military service also carries with it a major flaw; that is to say, people follow veterans’ ideas, even if those ideas are bad. For example, Senator John McCain’s policy positions after 1991 were increasingly irrational and disastrous, yet very few people could effectively stand up to him. After all, McCain had been a POW in ‘Nam and a “war hero.”

    Ultimately, military service is merely a garnish on a career, and today any American “fighting for freedom” is embarking upon a pointless endeavor. In most circumstances, America’s military fights people who are not the enemies of the country, but rather they are the enemies of whatever foreign pressure group has better lobbyists in Washington. It’s been that way for at least a century. The First World War was exactly this sort of conflict. Likewise, the Second World War – at least as far as Germany and Italy were concerned – was the result of pressure groups rather than national interest. In America, courage that really counts is defending the white American people domestically. John Wayne did that. His first genuine metapolitical work was Big Jim McClain [51] (1952), where he fought Communists in Hawaii.

    The Road To and From The Alamo: John Wayne as Metapolitical Activist

    John Wayne’s major project – one which he poured his fortune and soul into – was The Alamo [52] (1960). He directed and starred in it alongside Richard Widmark and Lawrence Harvey. When watching it, one sees that Wayne as Davy Crockett isn’t fighting Santa Ana and his army of mestizos, but rather America’s domestic Left wing and the Communist side of the Cold War. He even got some funding from conservative Texans to make a movie as a counterpoint to the Leftist, anti-white movie Giant [53] (1956).

    John Wayne’s direction of The Alamo should be viewed as a lesson in good leadership. Wayne deftly handled the logistics of the project – it was filmed on location in rural Texas. He even had train tracks built to maintain supply lines. He kept production going even in the teeth of several tragic deaths among the cast and crew. He also managed to get his mentor, John Ford, out of the way when he showed up uninvited and started giving orders. He was able to keep big-ego actors working for him even after arguments that almost became fistfights. Indeed, although all of Wayne’s friends knew that he’d thrown his heart and soul into the project, a great many of them worked against him in some way throughout. James Arness, for example, didn’t show up for a meeting where he’d have been offered to play the role of Sam Houston.

    Although Wayne successfully completed the project, moviemaking is a for-profit business. The Alamo’s costs had spiraled out of control. To finish the project, Wayne threw in all his own cash, mortgaged his film company’s stock of movies, and mortgaged his house. While many Americans went to see it, the film didn’t make any money in the short term due to its massive cost. However, it should be carefully analyzed, as it represented the strengths and weaknesses of the Right just as the racialist, non-white political Left was about to sweep into power through Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson. The Alamo’s strengths and weaknesses are as follows.

    Weaknesses:

    • The story’s pacing is poor. There are long subplots that don’t push the story along. Among other slow stretches, Davy Crockett (John Wayne) tries to woo a “damsel in distress” (Linda Cristal). There is also a big bar-fight scene between The Alamo defenders that serves no real purpose. Outside of science fiction and dystopian works, Right-wing fiction has yet to match that produced by Leftists.
    • It is a metapolitical work for the anti-Communists who were fighting the Cold War. It is not an accurate depiction of what actually transpired during the Texas War of Independence. In reality, the conflict was a clash of civilizations between the Spanish-ruled mestizo civilization and the American Anglos. In the actual battle, the Mexicans deliberately killed Texans outside the bounds of Christian chivalry. In John Wayne’s epics, the Texans gladly fight to the death and the Mexicans honorably killed them. As a result of this, the movie is awkward.
    • Santa Ana (Ruben Padilla) is played as something like an anti-Communist military dictator similar to Chile’s Pinochet rather than someone more shifty – like Vicente Fox.
    • John Wayne makes what we call today the “Boomer conservative” philosophical error of mistaking a form of government (muh Constitution) for a form of government that is an expression of a particular people. Wayne as Davy Crockett makes this mistake when he says [54], “Republic. I like the sound of the word. It means people can live free, talk free, go or come, buy or sell, be drunk or sober, however they choose . . . Some words can give you a feeling that makes your heart warm. Republic is one of those words.” All African nations are republics . . . does that make your heart warm?
    • John Wayne portrays blacks as loyal and self-sacrificing citizens-to-be. He ignores the fact that blacks in the 1960s were embarking on an insurgency that would leave cities in ruins up to the present day. For example, Jethro (Jester Hairston) throws himself in front of Mexican bayonets [55] to allow his master, Jim Bowie (Richard Widmark), to fight a few seconds longer. This also is an entirely inaccurate view of black loyalty during a military crisis. Blacks are uneven [56].

    Strengths:

    • These can be boiled down to one paragraph, but they are big strengths. The cinematography and music are outstanding. The Alamo was awarded an Oscar for Best Sound and a Golden Globe for its music. The battle scenes are also very well done. Clips of the Mexican army were used in other films, including How the West Was Won. And this tale does show how to behave in a dignified way under terrible pressure.

    John Wayne and Race

    It is important to note that, while John Wayne was well-read, he lived in a time when the distribution of information and its framing was tightly controlled. There were only two serious Right-wing books that “went viral” while John Wayne was politically aware and active. The first was The Iron Curtain Over America [57] (1951) by John Beaty, and the second was The Dispossessed Majority [58] (1972) by Wilmot Robertson. We don’t know if Wayne did or did not read them. If he had a racial view, it could best be described as implicit white supremacy. During the North American phase of Manifest Destiny, the white man advanced and the red man disappeared. During its Pacific phase, the white man ruled over natives who did not vanish, but who were left prostrate following wars. Thus, Wayne didn’t need to think hard about race.

    Wayne’s statements on the matter were all over the map. On one hand, he made statements in reference to his football career such as, “If the player on the other side of the scrimmage line is as good or better than you, you don’t care what color, religion, or nationality he is, you respect him. I’ve tried to live by that all my life.”[2] [59] These sentiments were balanced by more frank talk in an interview with Playboy magazine [60]: “. . . [W]e can’t all of a sudden get down on our knees and turn everything over to the leadership of the blacks. I believe in white supremacy until the blacks are educated to a point of responsibility.” He also told reporters [61]:

    We’re being represented by men who are kowtowing to minorities where they can get votes and I think it is bad for our country. And I’m sad to see minorities make so much of themselves as a hyphenated American. I wish they’d all get to thinking that they’re Americans, as they should.

    Duke Morrison was unable to come to terms with the racial conflicts that were increasingly consuming America as he aged into his golden years. But there is one thing to note, namely that his best movie – and quite possibly one of the best movies ever made – was The Searchers, where Duke’s character John Wayne, the personification of (white) American Manhood, played a man driven to fight –  racial holy war style – the Comanche who had killed his family. The movie is quite dark. Wayne is hostile to his mixed-race sidekick (Jeffrey Hunter). The Comanche rape and murder white women. Both sides mutilate the bodies of their racial enemies’ dead. In a way that many white advocates today might understand, in the movie’s haunting final scene [62], Wayne’s character Ethan is cut off from white civilization, although his actions were necessary for that civilization to exist at all.

    John Wayne and the J-Communists

    The Cold War was a large and complex thing, but one aspect of it was that Communism was a Jewish ideology masquerading as a universalist Christian heresy. At least this was true until the Soviet Union became ruled by ethnic Russians, who sided with the Arabs against Israel after 1967. Throughout John Wayne’s lifetime, Communism was on the march, and the Soviet Union was a real force to be reckoned with. Additionally, a great many people in Hollywood, especially Jews, were active Communists to one degree or another.

    John Wayne was an anti-Communist. It is possible (but not certain) that he was a member of the John Birch Society. He gave many public speeches against Communism. And many of his friends were Jew-wise anti-Communists.

    He also worked to get the former Communist, Carl Foreman [63], blacklisted [64]. Wayne felt that Foreman’s movie High Noon [64] (1952) was an inaccurate and subversive reading of Americanism. In it, the Sheriff (Gary Cooper, who was himself an anti-Communist) must protect his town from some returning criminals. The townspeople refuse to join the Sheriff’s posse and cower in fear. The Sheriff must face the criminals alone. High Noon is an excellent film, and it has several interpretations. White advocates can easily identify with Cooper’s solitary stand for his community.

    One note about the blacklist: After the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492, Spanish cultural forms entered a golden age. In the Jew-free England between Edward I and Oliver Cromwell, England produced Chaucer and Shakespeare. Judging from these examples, one can see that Jews bring down the culture of their host society. During the era of the Hollywood blacklist, the worst Jews were cut off from the culture industry, and those remaining had to toe the line. The 1950s became a mini-golden age of American culture. The songs from that time are excellent. Even today, “oldies” remain very popular. Turn on a TV channel that specializes in re-runs, and nearly every show will have been produced in the 1950s. Walt Disney’s greatest works also originated during a time when no Jews worked in his company.

    Westerns Beyond the Westerns: John Wayne’s Serious, Later Work

    After the challenges of The Alamo, John Wayne made a series of what film historian John McElwee has called “comfort Westerns [65].” These films [66], like North to Alaska [67] (1960) and The Comancheros [68] (1961) are well-made and easy to watch action films. A number of these films are also whitopian, such as the war picture In Harm’s Way [68] (1965). Some of the comfort Westerns aren’t that good, however, like Cahill, United States Marshal [69] (1973). Part of John Wayne’s ethos was to always keep working, and as a result, not all his films were great. Nonetheless, his later movies have a seriousness that needs to be discussed.

    The Green Berets is the only movie made[3] [70] during the Vietnam War that was sympathetic to American efforts there. At the time, it was subject to many protests. Oliver Stone considers it “racist,” which misses the considerable empathy shown by Wayne for the South Vietnamese characters. The movie has aged well, its story is good, the pacing is on, and the death of Sergeant Petersen (Jim Hutton) still has an emotional impact. Manifest Destiny’s final moments played out on April 30, 1975 in Saigon, so there is a poignancy in that the actor who best personified Manifest Destiny played a soldier in Vietnam.

    The Undefeated [71] (1969), set during the Civil War, has an opening battle scene that is really well done. The movie tells the story of a group of Union Army vets trying to sell horses to the French in Mexico. They must eventually pick sides in the Mexican-French Conflict and team up with a group of Confederates who are going to join the French. While it is a whitopian comfort Western, it does attempt to get Americans to end their differences over things like the Confederate Battle Flag and work together. The firing squads [72] depicted in it aren’t too far removed from what was really going on in Latin America during the Cold War, either.

    In True Grit [31] (1968), while Glen Campbell is miscast, it does show that the old values of Iowa Privilege still matter. Wayne would win an Oscar for this role. True Grit has an insidious side, though. It spawned a subgenre in which an old white guy does a successful rear-guard defense of the values and people of white Western civilization. However, this subgenre is easy to subvert. Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino [73] (2008) is another example, but in it, Eastwood’s character represents white American manhood sacrificing himself in a non-white vs. non-white conflict.

    Chisum [74] (1970) loosely follows the story of the New Mexico Territory’s Lincoln County War [75]. Like all great art, the movie can represent real-world situations beyond its original surface meaning. In this case, what should be an impartial law enforcement agency becomes an agent for one sociopolitical faction against another. President Nixon, who is said to have liked the film, would come to be the victim of a disgruntled senior FBI official colluding with the mainstream press and the Democratic Party – the sort of behavior which continues today.

    The Cowboys [76] (1972) was the first film that depicted Baby Boomers as being a disaster of vice, poor judgment, and self-absorption. John Wayne must get his cattle to the railhead at Belle Fourche, South Dakota with a group of children who are too young to be Boomers. Along the way, he toughens them up and teaches them how to be men. In the end, he is shot in a cowardly way [77] by a knave with a hippie hairstyle right out of Woodstock (played by Bruce Dern).

    And lastly, John Wayne’s swan song is The Shootist [78] (1976). If John Wayne ever subtly alluded to the ongoing Sub-Saharan-fueled crimewave then plaguing America’s cities, it was when he depicted scenes of Anglo or Mexican muggers getting shot after some corny lines by Wayne. This happens in The Undefeated, Chisum, and The Shootist [79]. It’s still escapism. John Wayne plays only an implicit white supremacist, not an actual one. But such a mugging (featuring an Anglo as mugger) opens John Wayne’s last movie. It wasn’t supposed to be Wayne’s last, but fortunately, from an artistic perspective, it was. (Wayne only acted in commercials [80] following this film.) In it, John Wayne must face old age, and the film’s greatness becomes apparent if one sees it after caring for aging parents or grandparents.

    John Wayne has ridden into the sunset, and yet his work lives on. His life and work should provide inspiration to whites for centuries.

    Notes

    [1] [81] Scott Eyman, John Wayne: The Life and Legend (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2014), Kindle loc 106.

    [2] [82] Ibid., Kindle loc. 778.

    [3] [83] Yes, I know, John Wayne doesn’t hook up to the static line before jumping!

    ...
    (Review Source)
  • The Angry Birds Movie
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    [1]2,217 words

    When the West was great, our children were raised with stories and sagas, folk tales and common prayer. Today, they are raised by corporate franchises [2], worship SJW superheroes, and experience reality through a screen. We must resist and turn to older, better ways. But in The Current Year, all too often the best many parents can do is find some movie that’s not completely pozzed they can take their children to.

    That movie has emerged. It’s time to redpill your children. It’s time to take them to see The Angry Birds Movie.

    The hero of Angry Birds is Red, who, as you might guess, is an angry bird on an island of happy, carefree, and flightless birds. Distinct in both temperament and appearance (he’s often mockingly called “eyebrows”), Red is a loner, working a job he hates and living far away from everyone else. After unloading on a customer, he’s sentenced to anger management training. Everyone laughs at him, and for his part, Red seems frustrated and contemptuous of the silly birds he’s surrounded by.

    One day, a ship arrives carrying two pigs. The ship inadvertently destroys Red’s beachside house, but no one cares because no one likes him anyway. The pigs bring news of a world outside the birds’ island. While Red is suspicious, everyone else is excited. The judge on the island (who is more or less the leader), declares a great celebration, and the pigs charm the birds by displaying their inventions, including a giant slingshot and a pyrotechnics show.

    A suspicious Red sneaks aboard their boat and finds there aren’t just a few pigs – there is a whole population. When he tells the other birds about this, he is accused of shaming the entire island with his suspicion. The pigs put on a “cowboy show” with dancing and music and are eagerly welcomed by the birds as once again everyone turns on Red. The pigs become a part of the island’s life, with their leader forming a friendly relationship with the judge, and the pigs building various entertainments to make the birds happy. Red is more isolated than ever.

    He embarks on a quest with Charlie and Bomb, two birds he met in anger management training. They seek Mighty Eagle, the legendary protector of the birds’ island, whom many people believe is a myth. After a grueling journey, they find not a heroic protector, but a fat, vulgar, and vain bird who is literally introduced to them (and the audience) taking a long piss into the Lake of Wisdom. Instead of providing guidance, he simply brags about how great he is. In disgust, Red hurries back to save the village himself – though Mighty Eagle’s knowing smirk as he runs back suggests the hero’s vanity may have just been part of a strategy to get Red to take action.

    It turns out the pigs are only visiting to steal the birds’ eggs, which they do while everyone is distracted by a dance party. They steal the eggs, which is to say, the birds’ children, and take them back to their home, though not before blowing up the birds’ homes with explosives. Heartbroken, the birds turn to Red, whose anger and suspicion has been vindicated by events. Red teaches them it’s ok to be angry.

    The birds sail to Piggy Island, where, using the giant slingshot, they fling themselves over the walls at the pig’s castle to rescue the eggs in a manner familiar to those who have played the game. With the help of the other birds and the returning Mighty Eagle, who drags himself out of retirement to fly the eggs to safety, Red saves the day. The story ends with the much wiser birds reunited with their children and Red a treasured part of the community, honored for saving the future of his society. But the evil leader of the pigs still plots at Piggy Island, suggesting a sequel is on the way.

    Fairly straightforward, but shocking. What you’re probably expecting is some great moment where the two cultures come to an understanding. Perhaps the leader of the pigs doesn’t know the eggs are literally the children of the birds. But the king, first introduced as “Leonard” and actually (I swear I’m not making this up) “King Mudbeard,” knows exactly what’s he’s doing. When Red screams at him he can’t eat eggs, the king tells him he can’t be blamed, after all, he’s a “foodie.” Don’t judge other cultures!

    The moral lesson of the movie isn’t that we should tolerate other cultures or that we are all the same under the skin. Instead, it’s that we should be suspicious of Ausländers and that some groups are simply enemies, full stop.

    Peace was never an option.

    The eggs aren’t reclaimed through negotiation with the pigs. Instead, the birds literally bomb and destroy their entire city, with Piggy Island essentially obliterated by the end of the movie. Though you don’t actually see this happen to anyone, the birds occasionally mention the reality of death and the fact they are risking their lives. This also suggests some of the pigs are actually being killed in the firestorm. Though the movie ends with a kind of song and dance number post-credits with some pigs dancing in the ruins, it’s hard to believe all of these pigs are still alive after this war. Violence is Golden [3], even in Angry Birds.

    It’s hard to avoid the idea the movie is simply a giant metaphor for the European refugee crisis. A spoiled island of happy birds doesn’t recognize the threat of interlopers. The island (Europe) is supposedly protected by a giant eagle (America), but the eagle is fat, lazy, and disconnected from what’s going on. The pigs (perhaps a deliberate insult to Muslims?) are lecherous, seem to be all male, and also arrive with tons of explosives. And King Mudbeard is sporting a very Arab looking beard.

    [4]

    Red, the suspicious right winger, is persecuted by his own leaders and told “no one cares about your opinion” by the other birds, who are eager to welcome the refugees and party with them. The pigs lounge around the birds’ island, even breaking into people’s houses and using their stuff. No one in charge seems upset.

    But though they arrive asking for mercy and tolerance, the pigs end up using terrorism and mockingly thank the birds for their “hospitality” as they flee with the eggs. The West, uh, the birds and the eagle, only reclaim their future through militant action, reclaiming their identity through combat. In a “blink and you miss it” moment, there’s even a Coexist sticker on the van one of the birds drives, with the peace sign turned into a pig’s nose and the Star of David rendered as a knife and fork. And this is the van a bird has to drive into Piggy Island to save some of his friends.

    War – war never changes.

    Indeed, there’s a kind of larger Narrative about overcoming decadence. None of the birds can fly, and it’s suggested that this is something they have somehow lost. The birds have no predators or enemies, so they have no reason to learn to fly or fight. Besides, there’s always Mighty Eagle.

    Instead, they spend all their time talking about how happy they are. The “maximum punishment” under the law is sending people to anger management training, so anyone who finds this way of life unsatisfying is actually pathologized. The judge, the leader of the community, is a tiny pompous bird standing on top of another concealed within a large robe, showing the weakness and vanity of current political leadership. The anger management training is mocked as showily “exotic” and absurd, led by a caricature of an unstable, SWPL woman who surrounds herself with weird Eastern statues and “modern” art to fill the cultural void.

    Indeed, the film could be taken as a critique of modern feminism. As some angry feminists have noticed [5], it’s men who save the day. The female birds are initially attentive to their eggs and to their roles as mothers. However, when they are given a pleasurable alternative, that’s what they choose. The “cowboy show” that first entertained them is a thinly veiled stripper show. As the pigs steal their eggs, the birds, especially the women, are out clubbing, listening to dance music and being titillated by the advances of the lascivious foreigners who have contempt for them. It’s only after their eggs are stolen that the females are reawakened to their roles as mothers, and then they (literally) hurl themselves against the enemy.

    Of course, there is another reading. Red is unhappy because he’s a loner. There are a number of scenes where Red looks longingly at happy families or couples on dates, knowing he can never have this. So his inability to form a relationship, either with male friends or a potential female companion, manifests as a kind of superior self-image. His anger is selfish and self-destructive. He sighs at the absurdity of everyone, but if he had a girlfriend, he’d be just as happy to party. Indeed, at the end of the film, Red is living within the village again and is actually friends with Charlie and Bomb, suggesting he’s not so angry anymore. If there was a “bluepill” reading of the film, this is it.

    But it’s unconvincing. A few hints suggest there is more going on to Red. During art classes for example, Red is making heroic sculptures of his hero Mighty Eagle while everyone else is making more “modern” art. When the pigs turn the peaceful community into a hub of noisy chaos, it’s Red who is troubled while everyone else seems delighted by the new pleasures to experience. When Red is savaged by his community for expressing suspicion of the pigs, he seems honestly flummoxed by everyone else’s reaction. It’s Red who openly questions the judge’s morality, asking him bluntly why exactly it’s so great that pigs who are so different from the birds have come to the island. It’s Red who expresses belief in the literal reality of Mighty Eagle and who seeks him out while everyone regards him as ancient history or a tale to amuse children. Red has a higher value system and is alienated from his degenerate community because of it.

    Red, The Bird Against Time.

    Many nationalists can relate to this. The in-joke among Alt Right types that we just stare at a computer all day alternately being angry or watching anime reflects something that’s partially true. If you see a fundamental problem with your society, you are, by definition, somewhat off. You’re not Ted Cruz tier, calling a basketball hoop a “ring” in front of an appalled crowd, but you’re still alienated and not really a part of the culture like everyone else.

    “Normies” who see no problem with foreigners replacing their entire society as long as they can still go clubbing and think it’s weird if you aren’t showily happy all the time are fundamentally different from us. That’s why so many nationalists jokingly say if they could go back in time, they would take the blue pill. But once you’re woke, you’re woke. The challenge is, as Red learns, to use that anger and motivation productively instead of just making yourself and everyone else around you miserable.

    There’s actually a moment of real pathos when after the eggs are stolen, the judge turns sadly to Red and says, “We need a leader.” For the first time, the outsider Red is now part of the community because when there is real conflict, you need someone actually willing to speak and act on those ugly truths so long ignored. Absurdly, I couldn’t help but think of George Lincoln Rockwell’s [6] tragic belief that he would somehow get his family back if he won a political victory. In a reversal of the usual pattern [7] of movies like Shane or The Searchers, the hero’s struggle actually makes him a part of the community rather than continuing in exile. It also means that if the pigs had never come, Red would still be alone, unhappy, and despised.

    So now that I’ve managed to bring up GLR in a discussion of a kids’ movie, the real question – will the children like it? Absolutely. There’s more implied vulgarity than some parents may be comfortable with (“cluck my life” says Red at one point) and some crude jokes (Mighty Eagle’s long piss). But there’s no outright cursing and the more adult jokes (the pigs have a copy of a book called “Fifty Shades of Green” for example) will go over the children’s heads. There are enough silly sounds and comedic bits for the little ones and enough sophisticated humor to keep you interested. Purely as entertainment, it’s just fun for both adults and small children. And some moments, like when Red saves the small birds, are genuinely touching, without being too syrupy sweet.

    And this little animated lesson has an important lesson for everyone. When you are faced with a threat, you defeat it, rather than taking refuge in pretty lies. It’s something little kids seem to understand, even if so many of our own rulers seemingly don’t.

    Sometimes, anger is ok. Sometimes, anger is necessary. And sometimes, it’s even okay to hate.

    ...
    (Review Source)
  • Hostiles: A Review
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    [1]1,969 words

    Hostiles (2017)
    Written, directed, & co-produced by Scott Cooper
    Starring Christian Bale, Rosamund Pike, Wes Studi, & Jesse Plemons

    Never have I seen a movie cuck so hard, so fast.

    Normally, I wouldn’t even consider reviewing a movie that is so antithetical to the goals of white advocacy. Why write up two thousand words on a movie that few of us will see and even fewer should? Because if there were ever any doubt about how Hollywood is teeming with our enemies like mosquitoes buzzing around a swamp, the movie Hostiles should lay it to rest forever.

    The term “hostiles” in this case refers to whites versus Indians. Like so much about this movie, however, it is a lie. The only real hostility being shown here is against white people, and it is as contemptuous as it is murderous in the end. But in the beginning, not so much. That’s why Hostiles is astoundingly dishonest. The first 40 minutes of this 130-minute movie offers a respectably pro-white perspective, both in a textual and subtextual sense. It’s also demonstrative of the fact that whites were not without sin on the frontier. It was a rough land, and it took rough men to break it. Despite this, the movie starts out by exuding unmistakable sympathy for the white perspective. There is little differentiating it from countless other Westerns from over seventy years ago: whites are depicted as pioneers and settlers who must maintain high levels of civilization in the face of a forbidding desert, antagonistic and semi-civilized Indians, and villainous whites who take advantage of the lawless nature of the territory for their own purposes. There may be good Indians in the mix and bad whites among the good, but the Western genre is first and foremost about the white experience in an environment that is, well, hostile.

    It’s 1892 in New Mexico. Rosalee Quaid, played by Rosamund Pike, watches in horror as four whooping and hollering Comanches invade her homestead and murder her husband. They put a bullet in his leg, shoot an arrow through his chest, and then scalp him – of course, we witness the gory details. Then, as she flees with her children, the tots get picked off one by one. Rosalee hides to escape capture and ultimately survives, presumably to carry an albatross of Indian-hate for the rest of her life.

    Now, so far, this is about right. The Comanches were perhaps the most feared and hated North American Indian tribe of them all, and not just by the whites. Other Indians hated them just as much. According to S. C. Gwynne in his Empire of the Summer Moon, “To their enemies, the Comanches were implacable buffalo-horned killers, grim apostles of darkness and devastation.” They were known for gang rape and the torture-murdering of infants. The Indians who checked Spanish expansion in North America through endless guerrilla warfare were the Comanches. And they likewise mercilessly raided other, more agrarian Indian tribes such as the Chickasaws, Choctows, and the Creeks. Finally, as an aside, the Indians John Wayne had to contend with in The Searchers were Comanches.

    So, from the audience’s perspective in the first part of the film, the Indians are bad news. This is why we don’t immediately condemn our main character, Captain Joseph Blocker, played by a mustachioed Christian Bale, when he hauls a family of escaped Apaches back to Fort Berringer. One he literally drags on horseback. It was a tough world back then. Tough tactics were required.

    The plot essentially begins when the fort’s colonel puts Blocker in charge of returning a dying Cheyenne prisoner, Chief Yellow Hawk, and his family to his tribal lands in Montana; at which point, after years of killing Indians and watching his friends being killed by Indians, Blocker is told that he can retire. Of course, Blocker refuses, saying that Yellow Hawk is a vicious killer with a long history of murdering whites under his braided leather wampum belt. He hates Yellow Hawk and would just as soon kill him as take him anywhere. But orders are orders, especially when they come down from on high, in this case from the President of the United States.

    Now that we have been presented with its formula, we can freeze-frame the movie and predict how it’s going to play out: Blocker at first has a hard time with Yellow Hawk. They run into Rosalee, which makes things even worse. They overcome their hatred as they battle alongside each other against bad guys. Blocker and Rosalee fall in love. Blocker and Yellow Hawk reconcile. Then they get a grateful Yellow Hawk and his family to their destination safe and sound. Cue rousing score over credits.

    This is essentially what happens, and it’s been done successfully many times in the past, most notably in The Defiant Ones with Tony Curtis and Sidney Poitier. 48 Hours with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy is another great example, but there really are too many to count. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the formula, of course. The enemies-to-frenemies-to-friends transition can evoke a strong emotional response, especially when done across racial or ethnic lines. It’s the kind of scenario that almost writes itself. But for it to work, there has to be balance. When one half of the duo completely capitulates to the other, then you’re tipping the scales; you’re saying that one side is more deserving of our empathy than the other. This then creates openings for ideology or messaging to slip through. And nothing ruins art worse than ideology and messaging.

    Hostiles is interesting in the way it tips the scales, however. The first 40 minutes actually tips it ever so slightly in favor of the whites. With Cultural Marxism the way it is today, any pro-white scenario is hard to visualize when white characters interact with non-whites on screen – especially in a historical context where whites were presumably committing their greatest crimes. This sort of thing is just not done anymore. Yet Hostiles was doing it, and after a second encounter with bloodthirsty Indian bad guys in which Blocker and crew stood their ground and picked a few of them off, I was beginning to get excited.

    The pro-white messaging of Hostiles went beyond the Indian barbarism on the Quaid homestead, however. Filmmakers know how to you make you dislike a character, and Scott Cooper does not fail in that. When a fancy-dan reporter grills Blocker about his excesses in the Indian Wars, we don’t like him one bit. He’s dressed too fashionably; he has a gold wristwatch on a chain; he’s a little too anxious to help himself to another glass of whiskey. He’s a smug, arrogant cake-eater who thinks he can judge a US Army officer when he’s never fought a day in his life. When staying in an officer’s home early on in their journey, Rosalie and Blocker have to listen to their host’s wife as she regurgitates ignorant platitudes about how the US mistreats the Indians. The woman is dressed like a humorless scold and acts like a humorless scold. Both of these characters are quickly sent packing in the eyes of the audience.

    Not only this, but all the white characters up to that point are perfectly sympathetic. You’d need a heart of stone not to be moved by Rosalee’s plight. Without exception, the men are chivalrous and polite to her. Bale’s portrayal of Blocker consists mostly of keeping his mouth shut and acting like he has a toothache. Get that? He may hate redskins, but he sure ain’t happy about it. He’s also best buds with a black corporal named Woodson, an unsubtle hint to the audience that this hatred couldn’t possibly be about race. The colonel back at Fort Berringer did come down hard on Blocker, but he was only doing his job. It was nothing personal. The men Blocker selects for his detail are equally unobjectionable, especially the war-weary Sergeant Metz and the West Point grad, Lieutenant Kidder.

    Of course, things begin to turn when the Indian women offer Rosalie a gift after watching her bury her family. Later on, Blocker is instructed to also escort a disgraced American soldier named Wills back to his fort so he can be court-martialed and hanged. His crime? Murdering an entire Indian family with an axe. Why, of course it is! But there were hints that Hostiles would turn into a bloody, white guilt panegyric well before then. The presence of Woodson was one. The other is Yellow Hawk himself. For a cold-blooded thug and killer, he and his photogenic family behave quite impeccably in captivity. Yellow Hawk is played by Wes Studi, who turned in a devilishly fine performance as the evil Magua in The Last of the Mohicians with Daniel Day Lewis back in 1992. This time around, Studi does little more than sit there and cough. The first of many disappointments in Hostiles.

    After the whites and Indians get to know each other a little bit and jettison a conveniently-injured Woodson in a Colorado fort, Hostiles then embarks on its let’s-kill-whitey campaign. First, some white fur traders abduct the women. A gunfight ensues. Bad guys get wiped out, but take a good guy along with them. Second, Wills breaks free – like we always knew he would – and goes on a rampage. Gunfight ensues. Bad guy gets wiped out, but not before taking a couple of good guys with him. Only this time, the good guy who kills him, the war-weary Metz, afterwards kills himself. Why? Because of white guilt, of course! He felt that what the whites had done to the Indians was too unforgivable for him to keep on keeping on.

    Finally, after Yellow Hawk dies and they bury him in his ancestral homeland in Montana, they meet the landowner and his three armed sons. Said landowner hates Indians so much he ignores the fact that Blocker is an Army captain on official business carrying a letter from the President. Instead, he runs his mouth about his property rights like a good Republican and then pulls out his gun and orders them off his property. And what happens when they refuse? You guessed it. Gunfight ensues. Bad guys get wiped out, but not before killing all of the good guys except for Blocker, Rosalee, and Yellow Hawk’s cute-as-a-button grandson Little Bear. Yes, his name is Little Bear.

    This pointless and stupid struggle (couldn’t the landowner have simply moved the body after Blocker and company had moved on?) is then followed by what might be the most hilariously nauseating denouement in all of cinema: Blocker and Rosalee adopt Little Bear and head for Chicago.

    Hostiles might not be the most virulently anti-white movie ever made. After all, the first 40 minutes count for something. But if you look at it from a racial perspective, quite a few line items are checked off on that ol’ white genocide bucket list:

    1. Establishing that whites are history’s villains. Check.
    2. Establishing that whites perpetrate most modern-day villainy. Check.
    3. Defining white virtue by how much whites kowtow to non-whites. Check.
    4. Encouraging suicidal white guilt. Check.
    5. Reveling in the near-pornographic murder, death, and suffering of whites. Check.
    6. Insisting that whites not make their own babies, but raise non-white ones instead. Check.

    Other line items could include:

    1. Encouraging white/non-white miscegenation.
    2. Characterizing white behavior as self-centered, greedy, corrupt, and/or stupid and vacuous.
    3. Placing non-whites on a higher moral or intellectual plane than whites.
    4. Determining white male virtue by how much white men submit to women.

    I propose that from now on, we use the term “hostiles” as a unit to determine how anti-white a film is. So Hostiles gets a score of 6 out of 10 hostiles.

    It’s pretty astounding to think that for as much as this film cucks, it still could have cucked a lot more. Sadly, many films these days do.

    Spencer J. Quinn is a frequent contributor to Counter-Currents and the author of the novel White Like You [2].

    ...
    (Review Source)
  • Wobomagonda: The White Devil
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    [1]

    “Major Robert Rogers & an Indian Chief,” from Fort Ticonderoga: A Short History by S. H. P. Pell.

    6,042 words

    “Their captain was Robert Rogers, of New Hampshire, – a strong, well-knit figure, in dress and appearance more woodsman than soldier . . . He was ambitious and violent, yet able in more ways than one, by no means uneducated, and so skilled in woodcraft, so energetic and resolute, that his services were invaluable.”

     –Francis Parkman, Montcalm and Wolfe (1885)

    I can vividly recall tramping the bastions and grassy demi-lunes of Fort Ticonderoga, formerly Fort Carillon, Pierre de Rigaurd de Vaudreuil’s star-shaped fort designed by a Canadian-born French engineer, Michel Chartier de Lotbiniere, in the style of Vauban – an edifice built on the strategic confluence of Lake Champlain and Lake George in upstate New York. I was in the company of a reenactor from Jaeger’s battalion, fresh from the War College Conference, eager to share his knowledge. He was clad in brown, fly-front breeches and a long, dark green waistcoat. His speech became increasingly animated as he described how Abercrombie’s 42nd Highlanders had been cut to pieces as they attempted to chop their way through the abatis – trunks of trees that had been deliberately felled to slow the British advance – so that the French regulars aided by the cunning Coureur de Bois sharpshooters could pick them off one by one as they forced their way through the tangle of knotty branches.

    My imagination instantly filled with images of tricorn hats and Union Jacks flying proudly in the breeze, floating across the water, a mass flotilla carrying sixteen thousand redcoats and colonial militia up the lake to land at Bernetz Brook. Rogers’ Rangers, supporting Gage’s 80th Regiment of Light Armed Foot, drove the French scouts behind their entrenchments, and the gallant Lord Howe, who had long championed the skills of the irregular units, was killed in an ambuscade at the point where Bernetz Brook enters the La Chute River. This was an incident precipitated by Phineas Lyman’s Connecticut regiment, which suddenly and unexpectedly came face-to-face, in the gloom of the forest’s half-light, with Captain Trepezet’s retreating French reconnaissance party.

    Howe, an advocate of modern tactics rather than the fixed bayonet-charge favored by his superior, Abercrombie, may have proved wise counsel if he had survived the skirmish at La Chute. The British, despite their overwhelming numeric superiority, went on to lose a catastrophic confrontation with the wily Montcalm, with witnesses describing how they “fell exceedingly fast” and were “cut down like grass,” and were eventually forced to “shamefully retreat.”

    Much like Braddock’s ill-fated march on Fort Duquesne in 1755 – the column of refugees being molested and butchered by renegade gangs of war-whooping Indians after the surrender of William Henry in 1757, and Wolfe falling to a well-aimed musket-ball on the Plains of Abraham at the siege of Quebec in 175 – I started to envisage hundreds upon thousands of spectral grey faces staring out from under bonny Scotch bonnets, as they fell prey to the onrushing hatchet-wielding Hurons, their sharp scalping knives already painted red with white men’s blood.

    Yet amidst all the carnage and confusion of what Timothy Todish rightfully describes in his book America’s First First World War, 1754-1763 (1982), one rough-edged American, a colonist of Scotch-Irish descent, stands out, representing a new breed of man, a pioneer spirit, that would go on to penetrate beyond the Adirondack mountains. His protégés, Jonathan Carver and James Tute, operating under Rogers’ direct orders, took to the rivers in a canoe in search of the legendary and elusive Northwest Passage, moving ever westwards and towards the Great Plains.

    Robert Rogers was the living embodiment of the Jacksonian notion of Manifest Destiny and westward expansion almost a century before the concept was even born. As John F. Ross, author of War on the Run (2009), rightfully says, Rogers was “an American creature who no one had ever seen before.” He was one of America’s first home-grown heroes, an icon whose actions filled hundreds of news-sheets and gazettes like the Boston Evening Post (1755-1760), the Boston Gazette (1755-1760), and the Boston News Letter of 1755. His name resounded throughout the Thirteen Colonies at a time when Stephen Brumwell, author of White Devil: A True Story of War, Savagery and Vengeance in Colonial America (2004), perceptively argues “there was a desperate need for good news, a need for British and American heroes. Initially you read descriptions of scouts where no one is mentioned and then there is mention of Captain Rogers, then the brave captain Rogers, and then Major Rogers in bold type.”

    At last, here was someone as comfortable in the Northeastern woodlands as the Indian tribes and the French guerrillas he battled, a charismatic leader who characterized the notion of “Rugged Americanism.” He was like that other great American frontiersman, Daniel Boone, who was consciously – or subliminally – influential in the formation of James Fenimore Cooper’s fictional characters Hawkeye; the pathfinder also known as Natty Bumpo; the Deerslayer; and La Longue Carabine, in his celebrated novels The Pioneers (1823), The Last of the Mohicans (1826), The Deerslayer (1827), and The Pathfinder (1840), which comprised – along with The Prairie (1840) – The Leatherstocking Tales.

    Rogers was a soldier whose exploits, as we will see, were immortalized in Francis Parkman’s Montcalm and Wolfe (1884) and Kenneth Roberts’ Northwest Passage (1937). He was a warrior who defined guerrilla warfare with his twenty-eight “Rules of Ranging.” Conceived in 1757 while resting between missions on Rogers’ Island in the Hudson River near Fort Edward, and blending the Indian’s stealthy way of war with his own innovative combat techniques, Rogers’ Standing Orders were intended to serve as a training manual for his personally-selected company of around six hundred men, and is today still revered by America’s elite fighting units, and is quoted on the first page of the U.S. Army Ranger’s Handbook. The original text includes excerpts like the following:

    Whenever you are ordered out to the enemies’ forts or frontiers for discoveries, if your number be small, march in a single file, keeping at such a distance from each other as to prevent one shot from killing two men . . .

    If you march over marshes or soft ground, change your position, and march abreast of each other to prevent the enemy from tracking you . . .

    If you have the good fortune to take any prisoners, keep them separate, till they are examined, and in your return take a different route from that in which you went out, that you may the better discover any party in your rear . . .

    If you oblige the enemy to retreat, be careful, in your pursuit of them, to keep out your flanking parties, and prevent them from gaining eminences, or rising grounds, in which case they would perhaps be able to rally and repulse you in their turn.

    if the enemy pursue your rear, take a circle till you come to your own tracks, and there form an ambush to receive them, and give them the first fire . . .

    So who was this man who attracted such a schizophrenic response from the British? Major General Jeffrey Amherst both admired and trusted him as a confidante, and Thomas Gage, although Amherst’s venal and spiteful successor, despised the “American upstart.” At the same time, Rogers commanded both fear and respect from tribes like the Abenaki, Nipissing, Crees, Caughnawaga, and Ottawa, as well as the leaders of French irregular troops like Charles Michel de Langlade, Durantaye, and Langis de Montegron, whose forces he often met head-on in vicious hand-to-hand fighting in the woods around Glens Falls, or sliding on sledges and rickety snowshoes along the icy stretches of Lake Champlain. The latter was a rusty, red-leafed portage of some importance, being a key crossing point between the English trade route up the Hudson and the French fur route along the St. Lawrence.

    I have studied primary sources relating to Rogers and his Rangers in New York, Ann Arbor, Boston, London, and elsewhere; read all the available secondary sources, such as John R. Cuneo’s definitive biography, Robert Rogers of the Rangers (1959) and Burt Garfield Loesher’s multi-volume The History of Rogers Rangers; searched the nine boxes of papers compiled on the author Kenneth Roberts held in the Yale rare manuscript library; walked the battlefields with local guides; trod the parapets of Fort Niagara and also Fort Number Four at Charlestown, New Hampshire; and sailed across Lake Memphremagog on the anniversary of the St Francis Raid, from Vermont to the Canadian border.

    What we know for sure is that Rogers was no average person. Historians and writers have described his complex life as being worthy of a Greek tragedy. He was born in 1731 to Irish immigrant parents, James and Mary McFatridge Rogers, in Methuen, northeastern Massachusetts before relocating to the Great Meadow district of New Hampshire, near present-day Concord in 1739, where his father was accidently killed after being mistaken for a foraging bear. His father had founded a settlement on 2,190 acres of land which he called Munterloney, after a hilly place in Derry, Ireland, from where he originated. Later, Rogers would refer to his childhood home as Mountalona; over time became Dunbarton, New Hampshire.

    His attributes and successes were numerous, including serving in Captain Daniel Ladd’s New Hampshire militia during the War of the Austrian Succession (1740-1748), known in North America as King George’s War (1744-1748); joining Ebenezer Eastman’s Scouting Company on the New Hampshire frontier in 1747, and Israel Putnam’s Connecticut Militia in 1755; acting as a recruiter for John Winslow’s militia in Portsmouth, New Hampshire; taking the initiative in mustering, equipping, and commanding ranger units; being personally responsible for paying his soldiers, and going deeply into debt as a consequence after taking loans to ensure that they were properly paid (their regular pay was stolen during an ambush on a British transport to Fort Edward); was the indispensable cutting edge of the British army in the northern sector around Crown Point; led a force of two hundred rangers on an expedition far behind enemy lines to the west against the Abenakis at Saint-Francis near Quebec, a staging base for Indian raids into New England; capturing Detroit in 1760; accepting the submission of the French posts on the Great Lakes during the spring of 1761; occupying Fort Michilimackinac and Fort St. Joseph; being transferred to North Carolina to pacify the Cherokees; fighting determinedly at the Battle of Bloody Run to put an end of Pontiac’s Rebellion in 1763; publishing his A Concise Account of North America in 1765 and co-authoring a stage-play, Ponteach [Pontiac]: or the Savages of America, in 1766; and being appointed by King George’s third governor of Michilimackinac (now Mackinaw City) through a royal charter to seek out the Northwest Passage.

    This is a creditable curriculum vitae, one might think, but one somewhat tarnished by a youthful flirtation with a gang of counterfeiters in 1754; accusations of administrative malfeasance and high treason while governor at Michilimackinac; periods of exile in England; claims that he may have exaggerated in his journals; time spent in a debtors’ prison; initial ambiguity over his loyalties and role at the time of the outbreak of the American War for Independence; involvement in the subterfuge surrounding the capture of the spy Nathaniel Hale; arousing the enmity of George Washington, with the first President admitting “Rogers was the only man [I] was afraid of”; escaping from Patriot prisons; suggestions of spousal abuse in the divorce petition submitted by his wife Elizabeth Brown in the late 1770s; two short and unsuccessful stints as leader of the Queen’s Rangers in 1776, and later the King’s Rangers in 1779; and a long history of habitual alcoholism. Rogers eventually retired on grounds of “ill-health,” no doubt precipitated by licentious behavior, resulting in the Great Major dying in drunken obscurity in London’s Southwark stews in 1795.

    This was a colorful life, indeed, and one that in the view of this writer demonstrates that Rogers was displaying all the signs of what we now recognize as post-traumatic stress disorder, a condition which was no doubt amplified by his lack of good breeding, the class system which permeated the British military cadre, and the innate and arrogant anti-colonial prejudice that he had to overcome. He was in fact one of the very first legends of colonial folklore who was wrongly cast aside, both by the British and his fellow Americans, until, in the words of Guy Chet from the University of North Texas, he was rediscovered in the form of “the Americanized warrior that’s a product of the nineteenth century,” explaining that it was made possible by “the same cultural forces that made The Last of the Mohicans such a literary hit and it resurrected Robert Rogers from oblivion.”

    Efforts to resuscitate Rogers include military artist Thomas Davies’ painting, The View of the Lines at Lake George, dating from the mid-1750s, which is the earliest known representation of the area in question and depicts a ranger standing by the Lakeside; and Benjamin West’s iconic 1770 neo-classical painting, The Death of General Wolfe, featuring the fanciful image of a ranger at the prostrate general’s side at Quebec. Chet correctly asserts that with Francis Parkman’s championing of the Major and Frederick S. Remington’s illustrations (like those showing the scouting expeditions around Fort Carillon and the Battle on Snowshoes), Rogers’ stature was restored by the mid-nineteenth century to that of a hero, even if a flawed one. Parkman (1823-1893), author of the monumental seven-volume France and England in North America and trustee of the Boston Athenaeum  (who, due to his foresight, holds the largest collection of Confederate imprints anywhere) from 1858 until his death, wrote extensively in his very literary histories of the Rangers’ reconnaissance missions in the wilds of upper New York State:

    The forest was everywhere, rolled over hill and valley in billows of interminable green, – a leafy maze, a mystery of shade, a universal hiding place, where murder might lurk unseen at the victim’s side, and nature seemed formed to nurse the mind with wild and dark imaginings. The detail of blood is set down in the untutored words of those who saw and felt it. But there was a suffering that had no record, – the mortal fear of women and children in the solitude of their wilderness homes, haunted, waking and sleeping, with nightmares of horror that were but the forecast of an imminent reality.

    And:

    Eight officers and more than a hundred rangers lay dead and wounded in the snow. Evening was near and the forest was darkening fast, when the few surviving broke and fled. Rogers with about twenty followers escaped up the mountain; and getting others about him, made a running fight against the Indian pursuers, reached Lake George, not without fresh losses, and after two days of misery regained Fort Edward with the remnant of his band. The enemy on their part suffered heavily, the chief loss falling on the Indians; who to avenge themselves, murdered all the wounded and nearly all the prisoners, and tying Phillips and his men to the trees hacked them to pieces.

    Parkman is now, of course, considered a reactionary and a racist and is the subject of increasingly vitriolic criticism. Historians like C. Vann Woodward object to his views on nationality and race, writing witheringly that Parkman had “permitted his bias to control his judgment, employed the trope of ‘national character’ to color sketches of French and English, and drew a distinction between Indian ‘savagery’ and settler ‘civilization.’”

    Robert Rogers, a white male American capable of beating the Indians at their own game, was to suffer the same fate, and his reputation and successes, as we shall see, needed to be deconstructed. Van Woodward’s concerns were shared by the French-trained historian W. J. Eccles, who insisted that Parkman was also biased against France and Roman Catholicism in general, and although “La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West (Boston, 1869) is doubtless a great literary work . . . as history, it is, to say the least, of dubious merit.” However, no such recognition regarding style or fluid narrative is afforded Parkman by much more stridently Leftist historians like Francis Jennings, who deride the Boston Brahmin in much the same way the Dunning School of historians are patronized by later and more radical authors and researchers of the American Civil War and Reconstruction. For them, Parkman is a fabricator and an apologist for colonialism and the ethnocide of the First Peoples. Rogers himself is made out to be the very personification of evil.

    But is this a fair assessment of Parkman, or indeed Rogers? Certainly, more balanced views do exist, with historians like Robert S. Allen saying that Parkman’s history of France and England in North America “remains a rich mixture of history and literature which few contemporary scholars can hope to emulate.” The historian Michael N. McConnell, while acknowledging the historical errors and racial prejudice in Parkman’s book The Conspiracy of Pontiac, has written:

    . . . it would be easy to dismiss Pontiac as a curious – perhaps embarrassing – artifact of another time and place. Yet Parkman’s work represents a pioneering effort; in several ways he anticipated the kind of frontier history now taken for granted. . . . Parkman’s masterful and evocative use of language remains his most enduring and instructive legacy.

    And the American literary critic, Edmund Wilson, in his book O Canada, descried Parkman’s France and England in North America in his book O Canada in the following terms: “The clarity, the momentum and the color of the first volumes of Parkman’s narrative are among the most brilliant achievements of the writing of history as an art.”

    And do the hackneyed claims of racism and sexism justify the partial erasure and continued denigration of his main American antagonist, Robert Rogers, from the historical record? For Parkman’s Rogers not only left traces in James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales, but also in Kenneth Roberts’ Northwest Passage. Cooper’s The Pathfinder opens with one of the most beautiful and evocative descriptions of America’s inland sea to be found anywhere in literature:

    And truly the scene was of a nature deeply to impress the imagination of the beholder. Towards the west, in which direction the faces of the party were turned, the eye ranged over an ocean of leaves, glorious and rich in the varied and lively verdure of a generous vegetation, and shaded by the luxuriant tints which belong to the forty-second latitude. The elm with its graceful and weeping top, the rich varieties of maple, most of the noble oaks of the American forest, with the broadleaved linden known in the parlance of the country as the basswood, mingled their uppermost branches, forming one broad and seemingly interminable carpet of foliage which stretched away towards the setting sun, until it bounded the horizon, by blending with the clouds, as the waves and the sky meet at the base of the vault of heaven. Here and there, by some accident of the tempests, or by a caprice of nature, a trifling opening among these giant members of the forest permitted an inferior tree to struggle upward towards the light, and to lift its modest head nearly to a level with the surrounding surface of the verdure. Of this class were the birch, a tree of some account in regions less favored, the quivering aspen, various generous nut-woods, and divers others, which resembled the ignoble and vulgar, thrown by circumstances into the presence of the stately and great. Here and there, too, the tall straight trunk of the pine pierced the vast field, rising high above it, like some grand monument reared by art on a plain of leaves.

    It was the vastness of the view, the nearly unbroken surface of verdure, that contained the principle of grandeur. The beauty was to be traced in the delicate tints, relieved by graduations of light and shade; while the solemn repose induced the feeling allied to awe.

    Such a portrayal of the boreal north is only matched in the artwork of the mid-nineteenth century Hudson River School, whose aesthetic visions of the Catskill, Adirondack, and White mountains were heavily influenced by the Düsseldorf School of painting and the Romantic movement. Artists like Thomas Cole, Albert Bierstadt, Asher Durand, and Frederic Edwin Church, being conscious purveyors of themes of nationalism, nature, and property, reflect three themes of America in the nineteenth century: discovery, exploration, and settlement, and rightfully suspicious of the economic and technological development of the age. This is not unlike Fenimore Cooper’s The Prairie, which ends thus:

    The trapper had remained nearly motionless for an hour. His eyes, alone, had occasionally opened and shut. When opened his gaze seemed fastened on the clouds which hung around the western horizon, reflecting the bright colors and giving form and loveliness to the glorious tints of an American sunset . . . For a moment, he looked about him, as if to invite all in presence to listen, (the lingering remnant of human frailty) and then, with a fine military elevation of the head, and with a voice that might be heard in every part of that numerous assembly he pronounced the word – “Here!” . . . The grave was made beneath the shade of some noble oaks. It has been carefully watched over to the present hour by the Pawnees of the Loup, and is often shown, to the traveler and the trader, as a spot where a just white-man sleeps. In due time the stone was placed at its head, with the simple inscription, which the trapper had himself requested. The only liberty taken by Middleton, was to add, “May no wanton hand ever disturb his remains.”

    This is a fictional soliloquy which might be appropriate for Rogers himself.

    For the central character of Kenneth Robert’s Northwest Passage, a book first serialized in the Saturday Evening Post and which was the second bestselling novel of its day, bettered only by Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind, was a sort of American Homeric Odyssey, the opening excerpt beautifully fore-shadowing what was to follow:

    The Northwest Passage, in the imagination of all free people, is a short cut to fame, fortune and romance – a hidden route to Golconda and the mystic East. On every side of us are men who hunt perpetually for their personal Northwest Passage, too often sacrificing health, strength and life itself to the search; and who shall say they are not happier in their vain but hopeful quest than wiser, duller folk who sit at home, venturing nothing and, with sour laughs, deriding the seekers for that fabled thoroughfare – that panacea for all afflictions of a humdrum world.

    What a better way to describe an adventurer like Robert Rogers, encapsulating both the excitement and the pathos of a life lived to the full? Roberts’ narrative, greatly aided by the skillful editing of Booth Tarkington, tells the story of the Raid on St. Francis, including descriptions like:

    “How’d it happen the Indians never caught him?” Hunk asked. McNott put his elbows on the table and glanced quickly over his shoulder. “By God,” he said, “I dunno! I dunno how he does it! He’s the size of a moose, but he goes drifting through the woods like an owl. He’ll stand right in plain sight, in the middle of some trees, and if you take your eyes off him for a second, he aint there. No sir: you can look for him all day, and you can’t find him! The Indians, they call him a devil. White Devil. That’s their name for him: Wobi madaondo: White Devil. They say he disappears into rocks, and pops out of ‘em, like Pamola, the Evil One.” . . .

    To the Sergeant’s way of thinking , the Major was the greatest man and the greatest soldier the world had ever seen . . . McNott, it appeared, had lived most of his life in Dunbarton, and so too had Rogers, except during those periods when the French-led St Francis Indians, coming down from the north, had burned the farmhouses, destroyed the crops, slaughtered the cattle, chopped down the fruit trees, scalped settlers and stolen women and children, and so forced farmers to seek sanctuary in block-houses in the larger settlements . . . ”Why,” McNott said, “seems like Rogers begun to chase Indians before he was weaned! Fifteen years old, he was, when he started fighting ‘em; and in a year’s time the smartest Indian ever made couldn’t think half as much like an Indian as Rogers could. He knew what they aimed to do before they knew themselves; and from that day to this, he ain’t changed one damned bit. No, sir! He hates a St Francis Indian worse’n poison . . .”

    And:

    Beyond him, from the ravine, I heard an awful sound – a thin, high squeal, made by a man. I heard yells, half-howl and half-caterwaul, that made the skin move behind the ears, as at the shriek of a lynx. When I reached Avery, he snapped up the lock of my musket and knocked the powder from the pan so it couldn’t be fired. The whole bottom of the ravine became clearer to me. Upstream and downstream, in two scattered groups, were Indians crouched behind the boulders: lying behind fallen tree-trunks. They were painted black and vermilion. Those rushing down the bank, and stumbling jerkily at the edge of the stream, were Dunbar’s, Turner’s and Jenkins’ men. Rushing with them and darting among them were other black-painted Indians and a horde of small men – Frenchmen – in a brighter green than the greenish buckskins of the Rangers. There must have been two hundred Frenchmen and Indians. If one of the stumblers broke loose from those around him and started upstream or downstream, a hidden Indian rose from behind a boulder and sank a hatchet in him. I made out Dunbar, standing at the edge of the water, defending himself, with his bayoneted musket against three Frenchmen. Seemingly the powder was wet; for not a musket was fired. An Indian came out of the foaming water behind Dunbar, split his head with a hatchet, and leaped forward on him as he fell. He knelt on Dunbar with one knee and chopped off his head. From the struggling, confused throng came agonized cries that made me sweat and shake. I saw two Indians, upstream, holding down a Ranger, head and foot, while a third Indian dismembered him with a hatchet, although he was still alive and screaming.

    The Atlantic Monthly declared the novel “a great historical document, which historians will acclaim,” while The New Republic endorsed its vision of the past for “anyone interested in the making of the nation.” The movie version, starring Spencer Tracy, was treated in a similarly positive manner. When the film was released in the US, the Department of Secondary Teachers of the National Education Association recommended Northwest Passage for classroom use, because “the success of this hardy band of early pioneers symbolizes our own struggles against bitter enemies in the modern world.” The film scholar Jacquelyn Kilpatrick pointed out that another teacher’s guide had endorsed the film for explaining everything from geography to art (one of the Rangers painted and killed Abenakis), claiming that through the “fine assortment of types” among the minor characters, “we glimpse early American characteristics of which we are rightly proud.”

    These are sentiments that are countered by the likes of Randolph Lewis, in his critique of the book and movie in his article “Classic,” where he writes:

    Given the treatment of Native peoples in popular culture even until recent decades, the Abenakis were better off without the attention of the screenwriters and directors . . . Their good fortune, such as it was, was shattered in 1940. As Hitler’s tanks raced across Europe and Japanese pilots trained for their raid on Pearl Harbor, MGM studios set their sights on an older foe, one whose on-screen defeat would remind European-Americans of their ability to crush even the most “bloodthirsty” enemies of progress and civilization. Only months before the Nazi and Japanese armies were confirmed as the new “savage Other” for European-Americans on which to set their sights, Hollywood turned its Technicolor gaze on the original Other, focusing on a tribe that escaped its notice in the past. In the hit movie Northwest Passage (1940), the Abenaki people became the sudden target of one of the most racist films ever released. If less notorious than nasty screeds like Birth of a Nation or The Searchers, Northwest Passage deserves recognition as their ideological equivalent, and should be treated as a black mark on the career of its director, the generally progressive King Vidor. . . .

    Northwest Passage starred Spencer Tracy as the colonial military leader Robert Rogers (1731-1795), whose “Rangers” had burned the Abenaki settlement of Odanak, in 1759. During the Seven Years War, Rogers’s men were supposed to serve as faux Indians after most of the real ones sided with the French, but instead of mastering the art of woodlands warfare and passing stealthily into symbolic redness, most of them were no match for highly skilled French marines or Native warriors who engaged them in the forests of New England. That Rogers ever became an Anglo-American hero is a tribute to the power of cultural mythologies to displace and dominate the historical record – as one historian has tartly observed, “What Rogers lacked as an irregular, he made up as self-publicist.” His boastful and inaccurate Journals became a literary sensation in London in the mid-1760s, obscuring the real facts of his “adventures” with self-aggrandizing half-truths that did not quite conceal the grim realities on which they were based. Here is how Rogers described the fateful morning of October 4, 1759:

    “At half hour before sunrise I surprised the town when they were all fast asleep, on the right, left, and center, which was done with so much alacrity by both the officers and men that the enemy had not time to recover themselves, or take arms for their own defense, till they were chiefly destroyed except some few of them who took to the water. About forty of my people pursued them, who destroyed such as attempted to make their escape that way, and sunk both them and their boats. A little after sunrise I set fire to all their houses except three in which there was corn that I reserved for the use of the party. The fire consumed many of the Indians who had concealed themselves in the cellars and lofts of their houses.”

    Somehow, this massacre of semi-combatants and non-combatants became a defining event for Anglo-American culture in both the US and Canada, and over the centuries, as Rogers was wrapped in layer after layer of hagiographic gauze, he became an ideal subject for a Technicolor epic. Yet because Hollywood producers do not read obscure primary documents, Rogers’s leap to cinematic prominence required the intermediate step of a best-selling novel, which Kenneth Roberts penned in 1936. In crafting his “historical” narrative of the raid, Roberts expended little effort in disentangling Rogers’s mélange of fact and fancy, which did not keep the book from being treated as a factual account. This was true not only in undistinguished newspapers, but also in the so-called serious press. As the book sat atop the best-seller list for almost two years . . . Despite the unsavory nature of Roberts’s narrative, MGM was quick to capitalize on the success of Roberts’s novel, lining up a respected director (Vidor) and an A-list star (Tracy) to begin production in 1939. Ignoring the quest of a “northwest passage” that consumed much of the novel, the film version focuses on the raid on Odanak and the glorification of Major Roberts. In a green-fringed Robin Hood get-up that would let him pass as “Indian” in the cold forests of New England, Spencer Tracy’s Rogers is one of the early white protagonists who is even more Native than the Natives. One of his men brags that, “The smartest Indian alive can’t think half as much like an Indian like Major Rogers can,” though the filmmakers’ judgment about “Indian thinking” seems clouded when we see the Abenakis depicted in the movie with an absurd trampoline-sized drum. The movie is filled with such inaccuracies, yet one aspect of the original event does filter through even the gauzy lens of Hollywood: the brutality of the raid, even in a film with a celebratory point of view, still seems far from heroic.

    Northwest Passage is one of those rare texts in which everything was laid bare without anyone meaning to do so, thereby allowing the secret history of colonialism to seep through the celluloid and compete for recognition with the “official version” the filmmakers intended to honor – which is to say, the text is easily inverted. For example, the film is drenched with extreme expressions of bloodlust on the part of the colonists that might seem like warrior machismo on one light, but mental illness in another. Explaining to new recruits that his men eat like kings when prowling the North woods in their green stockings, Major Rogers declares, “Of course, now or then they have to stop eating to kill and Indian or two.” Perversely, one of his men even combines the two activities, wrapping the head of a slaughtered warrior in a leather bag and then gnawing on pieces of it to curb his hunger. He even shares bits of the head with fellow Rangers (who, to be fair, do not realize what he is feeding them) . . . Perhaps because of the cannibalism and various scenes of orgiastic killing inflicted upon Abenaki people, Northwest Passage takes great pains to legitimize their slaughter through didactic speeches and asides . . . In Vidor’s film, there’s a symbolic link between “historical”, “barbaric” Abenaki violence and contemporary Fascist aggression overseas, one that is more than a product of an overheated imagination or a presentist orientation to the past . . . The Abenaki writer Joseph Bruchac saw Northwest Passage as a young boy in upstate New York, and he still remembers the trauma of hearing some of the final words of the film: “Sir, I have the honor to report that the Abenakis are destroyed,” Major Rogers tells his delighted superiors. While the rest of the audience cheered these words, young Bruchac sat silent in the theater, suddenly fearful. “That movie had made me afraid.”

    The popularity of Northwest Passage suggests a great deal about the general culture of Indian-hating in which Native youth grew up in the 1940s, as well as the specific degradation of Abenaki culture that they were forced to witness all around them. “In hindsight, we can easily say that the native people of North America were oppressed by three major forces,” Chief Leonard George, a First Nations leader, recently said. “There were the government, religion, and Hollywood…” Celebrated as a Hollywood “classic,” Northwest Passage weds this oppression to cinematic “art.”

    The merits and demerits of Rogers and what he has come to symbolize are revisited every time the illustrations by artists like Ron Embleton and Gary Zaboly are displayed or discussed; every time Christopher Shaw’s The Battle on Snowshoes, from his 2000 recording Adirondack Serenade is sung; and whenever reruns of the 1958-59 NBC TV show starring Buddy Ebsen and Keith Larsen, or the more recent AMC drama Turn: Washington’s Spies, is syndicated. One wonders how long Methuen High School, where Rogers was born and raised, will continue to use the “Rangers” as their mascot, and for how much longer will Rogers’ statue, commemorating both the man himself and his Rangers, stand tall on Rogers’ Island, where a substantive archaeological excavation has taken place to uncover colonial artifacts, will remain intact. Or will it, too, fall to the victim mythology that has led to frenzied attacks on the statues of Southern heroes? This would be followed, of course, by the predictable and outrageous demands for reparations, books being taken off library shelves, and artwork being vandalized by agents of hysterical minorities fighting back against the supposed atrocities of white colonialism.

    Perhaps the final paragraph from Roberts’ Northwest Passage text should inform – and in some way define – our collective response:

    And then Ann surprised us all. “Dead?” she said softly. “Rid of him? He’ll never die, and you’ll never want to be rid of him and what he stood for!”

    She rose, crossed the room and slid aside the shutter. The wind of late October rattled the windows, and we heard the scurry of dry leaves whirling against the door with the sound of moccasined feet running across frosty grass. A bellowing squall plucked at the corner of the house.

    “That sounds like his voice,” Ann whispered; “his voice and his footsteps, searching, hurrying, hunting! Ah, no! You can’t kill what was in that man!”

    ...
    (Review Source)

Brett Stevens1
Amerika.org



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • Richard Spencer Dominates Leftist Narrative At Texas A&M
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    Richard Spencer Dominates Leftist Narrative At Texas A&M

    by Brett Stevens on December 8, 2016

    Richard B. Spencer, President and Director of the National Policy Institute, marched into the lion’s den at a college campus in central Texas. His speech to the mostly-student audience may well have shattered the media as, despite the constant whining by mainstream sources, it converted many from “hostile” to “curious,” especially white students. It showed an insight into the Alt Right and explained its appeal.

    Here is my transcript, relying on the video sources linked below, of Mr. Spencer’s speech:

    Good evening, everyone. Long live Texas! Thank you for having me. I appreciate it.

    I’m just curious; I want to do a bit of a demographic study. If you’re a member of the media, please raise your hand. Okay, okay, put your hand own, please. That’s a very offensive gesture. Shut it down. We knew you were the lying media, but for God’s sake, that’s out of hand.

    I’d like to first off thank Preston for bringing me here. He is truly a brave man and he is bringing a level of discourse to the university that otherwise probably wouldn’t be there. The fact is that we know universities have become stifling, in terms of what you can talk about, and Preston’s fighting against that and I greatly appreciate it. So please give him a round of applause.

    I’d also like to thank the Texas A&M University Police. They have been absolutely professional with me; they also care about free speech and they have really gone the extra mile in terms of allowing this event to occur. So please give them a round of applause. Thank you.

    So, just out of curiosity, please raise your hands if you are a Texas A&M student. Awesome. I am very happy to be here and I hope you all ask questions. I actually did grow up in Texas, so I am proud to say, the Alamo did nothing wrong.

    Well. What is the Alt Right? Who are you? Pepe. Yeah, absolutely. I’m sure some of you have first heard about the Alt Right after the “hail heard round the world” that occurred at the NPI conference. That was a lot of fun.

    I would say that that moment, which went viral, is an expression of a lot of different things. It is certainly the expression of the desire of a mainstream media to slander and just silence us with one thirty second footage. “Aww, these people are terrible.” But I think it also says something about the life of the Alt Right. We don’t allow other people to tell us what we can joke about. We don’t play by their rules. We have fun, we can be outlandish, and that is never going to stop.

    So, the Alt Right can’t be defined by something from the past. We can’t be trapped in the past. But we also need to go forward guilt-free. We need to be high energy, we need to have fun, we need to be a little outlandish, we need to trigger the world. So all I would say is: keep it up. I love you all.

    So what is the Alt Right? When I first started using that term, it was about mid-2008, and at that point, I think the Alt Right was fairly, you could say, negative in its meaning. We didn’t quite know exactly what it was. I knew that something was profoundly wrong with mainstream conservatism. That was evident enough with the George W. Bush administration, with the neoconservatives disastrous wars in Iraq and so on, and with the rest of the mainstream Right offering no answers, the religious Right, all that kind of stuff. I knew that we had to have a new starting point. I also knew that we needed to — this wasn’t a matter just of tweaking the Right, as it is — this was really the matter of a new beginning. Of a new starting point for conservatism in America.

    You can actually look at the starting point of the conservative movement, and they talk about global capitalism, and free markets, and the Constitution, and vague Christian values of some sort. But they never ask that question of “Who are we?” They never ask that question of identity. They probably assumed it. They probably assumed a white America, a European America, but they never really asked about it and they were never really conscious of it.

    And so the conservative movement became, in its way, a mirror reflection, a photographic negative, of the Soviet Union. It became an ideological nation, it became a nation based on abstract values, like “muh freedom,” “muh democracy,” “muh bombin’ muh commies and Muslims.” It was never a place; it was never a people; it was a kind of ideology. That’s what conservatism was. And so I don’t think George W. Bush was some kind of aberration, some kind of wrong turn to the conservative movement; I think sadly he was an expression of that general trajectory. Not towards identity, not towards nationalism, not towards a sense of “us” or who we are, but towards this abstract universalism that ends up in ridiculous two trillion dollar wars in the middle east, that no one understands and no one can even remember what started them.

    So, in a way, George W. Bush was the founder of the Alt Right. He was at least the founder of the term, because I knew that we had to get away from that. We had to get away from him. So I started using the term “Alt Right” in about mid-2008, and at that point, as I said, I don’t think it had an essence quite then. It was just a sense of not-that; let’s get away from W, let’s get away from all that, let’s start anew. From there, the Alt Right evolved, it took on new meanings, and in a way it was outside of my control, absolutely — the Alt Right has never been the Richard Spencer agenda or anything like that — the Alt Right has been organic, that’s why it has succeeded, precisely because other people have picked it up and they have added meanings to it, and so on.

    But it kind of evolved with me, in a way. After I dropped out of graduate school, I worked in what you could call the anti-war conservative movement. I wanted to oppose George W. Bush’s agenda but I wanted to do it from a Right-wing perspective. That is, I evolved too. And by around 2010, I would say, I had an idea of where that new starting place was going to be. And that new starting point was going to be identity. And that was going to be the question that we asked first.

    So what is identity? In a way, it’s the question “who are you?” We all have many different identities. You could say that you’re a student at Texas A&M. You’re into weight-lifting. You went to a Star Trek convention. You like to wear sweatpants. These are elective identities. They say something about us, but they’re elective.

    But then you can delve a little bit deeper, and you could say, “I’m a citizen of the United States. I grew up somewhere. We all grew up somewhere. We’re all part of something. We all come from someplace.

    You can go even deeper, and say, “These are my parents. This is my family.” The Left in the eighteenth century had this line “an accident of birth.” An accident of birth. No birth is an accident. There’s no historical or cosmic accident in birth. You come from somewhere. You have parents. They have parents, they have a history. So you’re part of a family. And you grew up somewhere. And you can go deeper, and you can say that you are part of an ethnicity and you are ultimately part of a race. You might not like this. You might really resonate to the idea that we’re all individuals, we’re all citizens. “We’re just Americans. I don’t see color. But color sees you. That’s a good line — I think Trevor Noah said that to a young conservative. She says, “Oh, I don’t see color. I’m a good young conservative.” He says, “What the hell do you do at a stoplight?” It’s a good question actually. We all see color. And race isn’t just color. Color is, in a way, a minor aspect of race. But you’re part of something. Whether you like it or not, you’re part of a bigger extended family. You’re part of this world; you’re part of this history. And that race has a story to tell.

    As a European, I can tell a story about people, people I never will know. Our lives stretch back to prehistory. We first started to become ourselves in the Greek and Roman world. So there’s a story that involves people you’ve never met. As a European, I can tell this story about the Greeks and the Romans, about the foundation of our civilization, about empire, about the coming of Christianity.

    Sure, Europe’s a place. It’s a place on the map, the people, the blood and its spirit. That’s much more important than some map. There are Europeans all over the world. If we went into space, we’d still be European.

    So we can tell a story. We went through tumults, we went through reformations, we went through revolutions, and we are who we are, and I think we’ve learned something about ourselves. That’s the story I can tell as a European. I think if I were an African-American I could tell a very different story. If I were to say what that story would be, it would be about being rooted in an African continent, and enslaved and kidnapped, and going through trials that perhaps I cannot imagine, but then becoming a people. You’re still a people. That’s the story I would tell. But it’s a different story.

    So that’s what it means to be part of a race. A race is genetically coherent, a race is something you can study, a race is about genes and DNA, but it’s not just about genes and DNA. The most important thing about it is the people and the spirit. That’s what a race is about.

    A lot of white people do not want to have a race. They say, “Oh, I’m just an individual. I’m just an American.” You have a race whether you like it or not. You’re part of a race whether you like it or not. When a Syrian refugee — so called — whether they’re from Syria or Africa or somewhere else in the middle east, when they enter Europe, they don’t look at anyone as “Oh, look, lookee there, this man, he’s Bavarian. Oh, he’s a Bavarian Catholic. Oh look, this guy must be from Ireland. Hmm, interesting. He’s Italian.” No, they don’t see that at all. They see us as white; they see us as white men. They see us as a race, and our enemy can see who we are whether we want to define ourselves as such or not. We are white.

    So that is the foundation of identity. You can go up, you can look at elective identities — I’m into weightlifting, I’m into Star Trek — and you can keep going down, and you go down, and down, and down, and you get to the root of identity. You get to that base, where you can’t go any further. And that is race.

    In America, we have a very peculiar conception of race. This has been perhaps the most racialized continent. It was a place that was an open country. It was an open country for Europeans who confronted people who were radically different than they were. And that confrontation, I’ll be honest, was terrible, bloody and violent. It was terrible, bloody and violent, but we conquered this continent. Whether it’s nice to say that or not, we won. And we got to define what America means, we got to define what this continent means. America, at the end of the day, belongs to white men.

    While I was coming here on the airplane, I re-watched perhaps my favorite movie, which is John Ford’s The Searchers. There’s a moment in that film that I love. It actually comes from a very minor character. It’s one of the Sorgesens, who are a Swedish family. This movie The Searchers takes place in Texas. It’s a brutal movie. It’s about Indians capturing this young white child, and Ethan — played by John Wayne — and his companions chasing after her for years, years, almost endlessly. There’s a moment when this woman Sorgesen, her husband Lars says, “Texas — This terrible country — killed my boy.” Their boy died on a revenge mission against these Indians and the Indians killed him. And Mrs. Sorgesen said, “No, the country didn’t kill your boy. We’re Texicans. And that means we’re a human man way out on a limb. We’re going to be out on that limb for years, for decades, maybe a hundred years. But we won’t be out on that limb forever. At some point, Texas is going to be a wonderful place to live. It’s going to be a great place to live. But perhaps our bones have to be in the ground before that will happen.”

    Texas is a wonderful place to live. And there are a lot of the white man’s bones in the ground to make that happen. White people did it. And I’m not going to ever claim that there wasn’t a lot of brutality that went along with it. But we did it. Our bones are in the ground, we own it, and at the end of the day, America cannot exist without us. We defined it. This country does belong to white people, culturally, politically, socially, everything. We defined what America is. But things change. The architect is what matters. It’s the genius behind something, it’s not just whoever happened to do the labor. Other people could have done it. But no one could have imagined it, no one could have designed it, because no one else did. History is proof.

    But things change. What is America now? Is it great? “Make America Great Again” was the slogan that captured the imagination really of the world. Embedded in that slogan “Make America Great Again” is its opposite, and that is an acknowledgement that America is not great. I think we know that. I think we know that in our bones and our guts, that things are getting worse. Previous generations couldn’t imagine that their children would have a worse world than they enjoyed, even a worse world than their parents enjoyed. Now 75% of white people think the country is on the wrong track; who could disagree with them, exactly? Does anyone think it’s getting better?

    “Make America Great Again.” The opposite is embedded in that statement. That’s what makes it in a way so powerful. We assume that America is not great. And it isn’t. And why isn’t it great? America is not great because in my lifetime, America has lost an essence. It’s lost a people, it’s lost a meaning. You listen to presidential inaugurations, these are these times when presidents will go up and tell us “what this is really about” and get everyone fired up, they don’t talk about America as an historic nation and a people with a story, as the product of a race, of a worldview, they basically talk about America as a platform for all of humanity. They talk about America as an economic system, effectively.

    Many have talked about the Roman Empire’s decline. It went from being a people to being a population, then to being a mob. I think that says a lot about the fall of Rome. America went from being a frontier, to being a people, then to being an economic platform for consumers from around the world. And let there be no doubt: Americanization, in this worst possible sense of the word, this is what Hillary Clinton was talking about when she said she wanted a “hemispheric open market.” This is what George Soros and Mark Zuckerberg want. They want an undifferentiated global population, raceless, genderless, identityless, meaningless population, consuming sugar, consuming drugs, while watching porn on VR goggles while they max out their credit cards. Don’t deny that that is the kind of passive nihilism that so many in the elite class actually want. They want a world without roots, they want a world without meaning, they want a flat grey-on-grey world, one economic market for them to manipulate. That’s what’s happening in the world.

    It isn’t just a great erasure of white people. It isn’t just an invasion of Europe, an invasion of the United States by the third world, it is ultimately the destruction of all peoples and all cultures around the globe.

    I’m not paranoid, they’re just out to get me.

    That’s what America has become. We might not all be able to put it into those words, but we know that that is what America is becoming. It’s becoming an homogeneous consuming mass, and no one wants it. Whether you’re black or white or Asian or Hispanic or whatever, no one wants that. And that’s what America has become.

    I agree with liberals who might say, “Oh Donald Trump, he’s vulgar, he’s ridiculous, listen to what he’s saying, this is crazy.” Look, I agree. But just the fact that Donald Trump said that word “great” — “Make America Great Again” — meant that he had higher hopes than the Clintons, and the Zuckbergs, and the Bill Gates, and the George Soroses combined. That he had a sense of height, of upward movement, of greatness, of that thing that makes the white race truly unique and truly wonderful, that striving towards infinity, that however vulgar he might be that he had a sense of it.

    And that’s what inspired the Alt Right. That’s what made Donald Trump an Alt Right hero. So this is where we are. We’re in a battle between that other America, that America we don’t want to talk about, that America that has our bones in the earth, that America that white Americans died for, that white Americans defined, and we have this other America, that’s just coming into view. This America that is a nihilistic economic platform for the world, that’s taking over the world and destroying everything in its path. That’s where we are. We’re at a tipping point.

    What we need right now are people who are willing to speak truth to power. I find that there’s this amazing thing about the Left. And I have a certain respect for the Left, believe it or not. I understand the Left in a way. What I find so amazing about the people who are protesting me out there, who are attempting to create the largest safe space in the world of 100,000 people at Kyle Field, is that they think they’re the underdog. Let me let you in on a secret: Richard Spencer is not the Establishment. Richard Spencer is not running the government. Richard Spencer is effectively a heretic in the modern age. Think about those places of power. The US military, public education (academia), major corporations whether they’re financial on the east coast, Silicon Valley, what have you. What do they all agree on? “Diversity is good.” “We’re all the same.” “We’re one world.” “C’mon man, we all bleed red.” You might think that that kind of limp liberalism is some kind of underdog perspective, that you’re speaking truth to power by saying that nonsense. You are not speaking truth to power. The military-industrial complex agrees with you, so does every major corporation, so does the US government. You are not speaking truth to power, you are power speaking.

    These institutions do not want you to have a sense of yourselves. They do not want you to have identity and rootedness. They do not want you to have duties to your people. They do not want you to think of yourself as part of an extended family that is bigger than any single individual, because the moment you have those duties, the moment you have that identity, is the moment that you are no longer the perfect, passive consumer-citizen that they want to create.

    Have an identity. I don’t need to tell black people in this room to have an identity because you all have got it. You know who you are. Have an identity. I don’t need to tell that African-Americans, I probably don’t need to tell that to Native Americans or Indians or Asians or anything. But I will tell that to white people: have a goddamn identity, have a sense of yourself. Be a part of this family. You are not an individual, you are not “just an Amurrican,” you are not just a citizen, you are part of this family; be a part of it. Find that within yourself. Find that shadow of self. Not the day-to-day self, find that shadow of self, that European, that hero within you. Be that person.

    Having an identity is the greatest challenge to the power structure that there is. Speaking truth to it means speaking the truth about race, about people, about nations, about who we are. You are not a rebel when you mouth this tired, boring, annoying, Left-wing pablum of the so-called “anti-fascists.” Or of these sinecured academics, people with six or seven figure salaries who think they’re Marxist revolutionaries. You are not speaking truth to power when you mouth their tired bullshit.

    Have an identity. Be something bigger than yourself. Become who you are, become a member of the people and speak truth to power my brothers and sisters. Thank you very much. Video sources: 1 2

    I was fortunate enough to attend this event with Roderick Kaine as well as my wife, and they made excellent company as we waited in line for what felt like hours, hoping to be admitted to the event as a mass riot swelled outside and spilled out of the “safe space” that TAMU created in the football stadium across the street.

    Kaine is worth meeting, if you get a chance. Witty, intelligent and sarcastic in a way that debunks the insanity all around us, he interacts without requiring the crutches that most modern people do and injects a fair amount of realistic yet absurdist humor at the same time. His book Smart and SeXy, about biological differences in intelligence between the sexes, is worth pursuing, and you can find more about him in our interview where only a small amount of his zest for life is unveiled.

    Mr. Kaine summarized the significance of the event well:

    Seeing all those leftists really brought it home to me that these people hate us. And by us, I don’t just mean reactionaries or alt-right shitlords. I mean every white person in this country. Especially those who have even the most modest amount of reservation about our demographic replacement or wealth transfers from working class whites to the ethnic underclass. They hate us and want us destroyed. They have no intention of listening to reasoning or respecting our right to exist and disagree with them. I really do not know how we will ever be able to shed ourselves of these parasites without the use of force, and probably massive force. At some level, I think the underclass and other leftists recognize that their existence is dependent is on us. Where else would they be able to steal the money to pay for welfare? Whether that welfare be make-work “professorships” or the official thing. If we collectively decided we were not going to pay for any of their shit anymore and would rather watch them starve, they would starve. And they know it. They aren’t capable of taking care of themselves. To stop us from collectively recognizing that we don’t need these ingrates and would in fact be better off without them, they are resorting to these intimidation campaigns and gaslighting the white population. “You raped, murdered, pillaged this country from other races, especially blacks. This country was stolen by whites from the work of blacks.” They need this lie not only to prop up their fragile egos, but also to keep the white population complacent in its current abused position. They are desperate for the lie to be maintained because its loss is an existential threat. Unfortunately for them the cracks are widening and white guilt will be cast off like so many other lies. They themselves will be cast off shortly after.

    The world is racing to a collision point. The order of “diversity” — based on ethnic whites subsidizing everyone else — has failed, as has the guilt manipulation used by the Left to coerce us into supporting it lest we be called racist/Hitler. It has become widely observable that diversity, liberal democracy, Leftist economics and other liberal programs have failed and left our civilization in ruins, and people want an alternative. This is the alternative Right, which unlike the mainstream Right, does not agree with Leftists on the assumptions that produce Leftism. We are going a different direction entirely.

    Spencer was a convincing speaker. He started out slowly, and built to a few major points:

    1. Against the Modern World. The Alt Right opposes not just the Left, but all of what the modern world has finally revealed itself to be: a grey race lumpenproletariat, working pointless and brain-numbing jobs, stranded in a “culture” of shopping malls and television. The only way out of non-identity is identity, and in the Spencerian view, every ethnic group needs to find its own because this modern hell will destroy us all equally.
    2. Western Civilization. The stakes here are not an election, or even a single country, but whether we can save Western Civilization from its internal decay brought on by a lack of purpose, resulting in individualism. We are not individuals standing alone, but only here and only significant because we are members of a group.
    3. Diversity Has Failed. Diversity is what the elites want, which is a population with no value higher than ideology and money, which makes that population easy to manipulate. Those who want a future will break free from these parasitic elites, whose agenda will lead only to Rome-style collapse, and instead begin restoring civilization.
    4. Identity Is A Spirit. Both Left and Right are dancing around the real issue, which is that those who understand the vision of Western Civilization are Western Civilization. We do not need reams of theory; we need a living spirit and to select all those who understand it, and using them, push forward to reconquer the ruined West and renovate it.

    To my eyes, Spencer was convincing and had the positive energy and direction that denotes a good leader. Calm and yet impassioned, he gave a powerful speech which also allowed for lulls so that the audience could assimilate the more difficult concepts. Meeting him in person later was a great deal of fun and showed that he is high energy and fully versed in the Alt Right literature to date. If he speaks near you, it is worth attending.

    While Roderick was subverting the crowd with timely memes against the dominant narrative, Spencer attracted the world media to TAMU for a confrontation. The panic was palpable, and the media response — editing the video of the event to show certain soundbites — revealed their impotence and agenda. The result conveyed a single truth: the Alt Right renovation of politics is happening now, and it is time to join in and help push the illusory Leftist regime out of the way, because we have a future to create.

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Ica Reviews1
Aryan Skynet



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

⚠️ 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐘 🔥 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 🔥 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 🔥 (𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖?) ⚠️

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  • Bone Tomahawk *****
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    bone-tomahawk

    Bone Tomahawk is the real deal: a gritty, unapologetic – or, anyway, not overly apologetic – portrait of a time when western civilization’s future was secured with sacrifice and with blood and when subhuman savagery met with the requisite repercussions. Patrick Wilson, in a winning and physically demanding role, plays Arthur O’Dwyer, an injured cowboy whose broken leg is the last thing on his mind when wife Samantha (Lili Simmons) is abducted by “troglodytes” – a pack of cannibalistic cave-dwelling Indians straight out of a horror movie.

    Joining O’Dwyer on the ride into savage territory to rescue Samantha are rock-solid Sheriff Hunt (Kurt Russell, more mature but just as badass as in Tombstone), gentleman Indian killer Mr. Brooder (Matthew Fox, who thankfully has a more dignified role than as the honky serial killer hunted by Madea in Alex Cross), and elderly, slow-witted backup deputy Chicory (Killing Them Softly’s Richard Jenkins, filling the Walter Brennan type sidekick role). Kurt Russell is Bone Tomahawk’s star power, but Jenkins practically steals the movie with his endearingly goofy interpretation of Chicory. Lili Simmons is perhaps never entirely convincing as a woman of the nineteenth century; but every member of the ensemble cast is entitled to ample applause.

    Bone Tomahawk is as fine a contribution to the western genre as the present century has made; but viewers hoping for something as wholesome as Shane or even The Searchers are likely to find that Bone Tomahawk makes some fairly extreme demands on audience stomachs with its graphic and gory depictions of the troglodytes’ atrocities. This astounding outing was written and directed by S. Craig Zahler, a man whose slim résumé would hardly suggest that his first movie as a director would be such an undisputable masterpiece. “I believe those fleas are alive – and talented,” Chicory says in fond remembrance of a flea circus he once attended; and similar words could characterize this grumpy reviewer’s experience of watching Bone Tomahawk – which, if nothing else, demonstrates that the perverted parasites of the movie industry can from time to time still create a thing of actual beauty and earn the money they grab from the goyim.

    5 stars. Ideological Content Analysis indicates that Bone Tomahawk is well worth seeing and:

    4. Flat-Earther! The flatness of the terrain crossed by the posse causes Chicory to give voice to his doubt about the roundness of the planet.

    3. Pro-marriage. Bone Tomahawk presents multiple touching examples of loving marriages. It is O’Dwyer’s devotion to his wife that drives him to drag himself to the end of his adventure.

    2. Christian. Characters dismissive of faith are disproportionately the ones who meet with unpleasant ends. “You can always sell ‘em to some idiot,” doomed thief David Arquette says in defense of the Bible. The likable Chicory is a Christian, as is O’Dwyer, who calls on God for strength as he drags his tired body toward what threatens to be a suicidal raid on the troglodytes’ lair. “This is what I prayed my whole life for – for help right now.” He crosses himself on finding his wife still alive, his faith in God’s existence seeming to have been confirmed. Sid Haig’s bandit, who hypocritically demands that the Bible be treated with respect while he goes about cutting sleeping men’s throats and steals their possessions, does, however, illustrate that mere profession of Christianity is no definite indication of merit.

    1. Racist! The only advantage the “four doomed men” of the posse have against the troglodytes, Sheriff Hunt announces, is that they are smarter than the subhumans. The cave-dwellers are grotesque, with animal bone piercings, and, in addition to being cannibals, blind and incapacitate their females, using them only for reproduction. This is implicitly contrasted with the comparatively high standing women have enjoyed in western civilization. The men of the frontier town of Bright Hope are respectful toward Mrs. O’Dwyer, who has even been able to study medicine and doctor the locals. Women of the twenty-first century, Bone Tomahawk would seem to suggest, would probably not be wise in welcoming white men’s eclipse in the world. Perhaps to mitigate the white-vs.-brown premise, the troglodytes appear smeared in a whitish clay pigment; while, in another ass-covering gesture, the movie includes a distinguished Indian character called “The Professor” (Fargo Season 2’s Zahn McClarnon) who explains that the troglodytes are inbred and “something else entirely” from typical Native Americans.

    Brooder, who remains an arrogant but nonetheless likable character throughout the film, shoots two Mexicans who approach the posse’s camp, suspecting them of being the scouts for a raid. “Mr. Brooder just educated two Mexicans on the meaning of Manifest Destiny,” Chicory explains to O’Dwyer, who asks if they deserved it. “I don’t know,” Chicory answers with meaningful ambiguity. An ethnomasochist in the audience at a question-and-answer session with the cast and crew (included on the DVD as an extra) refers to Brooder as a psychopath; but nothing whatsoever in the film suggests this. Brooder is a good and ultimately selfless man in spite of what Chicory anachronistically characterizes as his “bigotry”. There is an awareness and an appreciation in Bone Tomahawk that in the construction of civilizations, unpleasant actions must sometimes be taken so that the greater good can be secured.

    Rainer Chlodwig von K.

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Sonny Bunch1
Free Beacon



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • ’12 Strong,’ ‘Hostiles’ Reviews
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)

    BY:

    There’s a moment in 12 Strong—a fact-based accounting of the first Special Forces team inserted into Afghanistan following the 9/11 attacks—when the soldiers we’ve been following watch a video of a woman being stoned to death in Afghanistan. It is brutal and ugly but not what one of the men had asked for. “This isn’t intel, it’s motivation,” he says, adding that he doesn’t need motivation. He’s got two collapsed skyscrapers and 3,000 dead Americans worth of motivation.

    ...
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The Federalist Staff5
The Federalist



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • Skip 'The Magnificent Seven' and Watch 'The Magnificent Seven' Instead
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    Today’s Hollywood remakes seem like increasingly desperate attempts to cash in on a familiar name, with no object beyond suckering the unwary into giving the latest dreck a good opening weekend. There was no reason to remake “Ben Hur,” for example, and no attempt (as far as I could tell) to update it or give it a different twist from the original. And if so, what would be the point? What’s the rationale of trying to remake something that was already perfect? It’s like thinking the world needs another version of “My Way” because Frank Sinatra flubbed it. The only way to approach these remakes is not to regard them as worth reviewing for their own sake—what a dreary task that would be—but rather as an opportunity to revisit the original and appreciate what was great about it. Which bring us to “The Magnificent Seven.” There’s a new version out there in the theaters right now. I haven’t bothered to see it, and I won’t. I found Mario Loyola’s pan in The Federalist utterly convincing. The key detail (spoiler warning, for what that’s worth) is that they replace the Mexican bandit villain from the 1960 version with a greedy industrialist, a godawful contemporary cliché. You could criticize the tendentious political overtones—the bad guy has to be a capitalist!—but that seems beside the point. Artistically, the worst thing about this choice is that it is crushingly boring. I’ve been told that the film is packed with over-the-top action scenes, but I’m already falling asleep just reading the plot summary. Yet Loyola’s review also throws some shade on the classic 1960 version of the film, viewing it as just another inferior remake of Akira Kurosawa’s 1954 film “The Seven Samurai.” In the process, he misses all of the really interesting things about the American version. To understand “The Magnificent Seven,” you have to understand it not as a mere remake of Kurosawa’s film, but as taking that film’s basic plot and character ideas (as well as elements of Kurosawa’s influential cinematography) and connecting them to themes explored in Westerns of that era. What makes “The Magnificent Seven” a great film is the way it is a culmination of important Western themes about the role of a man of violence in a civilized society, and about what it means to be a man. Here I’m going to give the usual spoiler warning. If you have never seen the 1960 version of “The Magnificent Seven,” go do that now, and while you’re at it, apologize to everyone for having been so woefully ignorant of your cultural heritage as an American. Then come back and read the rest of this article. Loyola theorizes that the events of “The Magnificent Seven” were transposed to a Mexican village to create a class distinction between the cowboys and the peasants in an otherwise classless American West. But the only real class difference that exists in the film is one that can be found at all times and in all societies, one that’s as old as the contest between Homer and Hesiod: the farmers versus the warriors. The farmers need the warriors to protect them, but the warriors don’t fit into the civilized, settled society of the farmers. This was a common theme in Westerns of the 1950s. Consider the famous ending of “The Searchers” (1956), when everyone else has been happily reunited, and they head into the family homestead, but John Wayne’s character—a rugged gunman with more than one killing to his name—remains outside on the porch, framed against a glowing landscape. He’s a permanent outsider, able to appreciate the love and warmth of domestic life but unable to fully join in. In “Shane” (both the 1953 movie and Jack Schaefer’s short, perfectly written 1949 novel),the hero is a gunslinger haunted by his old life and seeking refuge. He becomes a farmhand for a sturdy settler and his wife, only to be drawn back into violence when they need his protection, even if it means leaving behind his life of peace. As he explains, “There’s no living with it, not a killing. There’s no going back from it. Right or wrong, it’s a brand.” I can’t imagine it was a coincidence that this theme was so popular in the 1950s, when a significant number of American men had fought in World War II or the Korean War and had recently gone through precisely this transition from military to civilian life. The answer provided by the Westerns of the era is that a warrior’s proper role is to protect the peaceful life that he isn’t part of. This is crucial for understanding the whole plot progression in “The Magnificent Seven.” It explains the villagers’ initial fear of their own guardians, since the only men of violence they have known are predators like Calvera, the film’s villain. It provides the material for small subplots in which Steve McQueen’s Vin trains the villagers to fight and Charles Bronson’s Bernardo is befriended by three boys from the village. It also explains the Seven’s decision to go back and save the village after Caldera has captured them and released them. They go back because their code is the opposite of Calvera’s. In his code, which is as old as the hills and the brigands who hide in them, it is natural that the strong use their strength to prey on the weak. “If God hadn’t wanted them shorn,” he explains, “he would not have made them sheep.” It is incomprehensible to him that an expert warrior—”a man like you,” he keeps repeating incredulously to Yul Brynner’s Chris—would risk his life for what he regards as lesser men. A few of the Seven return for pride (James Coburn’s Britt) or misplaced greed (Brad Dexter’s Harry Luck). But most of them do it because in their code the role of the strong is to protect the weak, which is why they can’t walk away and leave their new friends to Caldera’s mercy. Again, the warriors are necessary to the farmers, but they can’t join them. At the end, “only the farmers have won”—them, and the one member of the seven who is able to hang up his guns and join them. That leads us to the other big theme of “The Magnificent Seven” and other Westerns of the era. While the film’s big-name actors draw the most attention—the whole project started as a star vehicle for Yul Brynner—from a literary perspective, “The Magnificent Seven” is really the story of the youngest of the seven, Chico, played by the least well-known actor: Horst Buchholz, a German actor recruited, through the magic of Hollywood, to play a Mexican. Chico is an eager but inexperienced young man who seeks what he thinks is the glamour and adventure of being a gunslinger. He is initially rejected from the group because he lacks their expert skills, but they are impressed by his pluck and determination and eventually take him on. By the end of the story, he has proven his courage and gained the respect of the men he admires—but he also learns that he doesn’t need to follow in their footsteps. For Chico, “The Magnificent Seven” is a coming-of-age story. He learns that manhood isn’t about swaggering or waving a gun around. It’s about courage, responsibility, and doing the right thing. That, too, fits in with the themes of the era. “Shane” is told from the perspective of a farmboy who regards Shane as his hero and learns from him what it means to grow up and be a man—but who remains on the farm with his father when Shane rides off into the sunset. In “The Searchers,” too, Jeffrey Hunter is John Wayne’s younger sidekick, who learns from him but is able to leave a life of violence and settle down. That was the ultimate answer for those men coming back from war: you can be a man of violence, for a while, when it’s necessary to protect others. But the real, enduring work of a man is about work and family. Does anybody explore these themes any more? Does every film have to be just a shoot-em-up filled with unrealistic stunts, dedicated to nothing wider than the proposition that all six-shooters have 12 bullets? We live at a time when we’re offered a choice between the good, liberal Pajama Boy without an ounce of masculinity, and the Potemkin Alpha Male who mistakes cartoonish bluster for manliness, one of whom happens to be running for president. “The Magnificent Seven” presents a much better alternative, wrapped up in an exciting, action-packed plot and—oh, yes, I almost forgot—the greatest Western theme music ever written. So skip the multiplex this weekend and revisit this classic, instead. Follow Robert on Twitter. ]]>
    ...
    (Review Source)
  • Let's Revisit John Ford's Classic Film About Our More Perfect Union
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    This is the first in a series of articles about older films that, while they may not be the greatest, have touched the author most profoundly on a personal level. In doing so, the writer believes, they express an “invulnerable relevance,” far more immediate than films closer to us in time, making them more than worthy of revisiting. Here, the film is John Ford’s “The Iron Horse” (1924). It is embedded at the end of this article. I have not lived in the United States for more than a decade, but long before I left it, I understood that the America I loved no longer existed. It is fashionable to say of that America: It never existed. It was only ever a nostalgic dream. A myth. It was the printing of the legend. I do not believe this is true. I believe that America did exist. It was indeed real. And Americans lived it. It was an America that sincerely believed and actually was involved in an epic, world-historical enterprise; an enterprise that sought to construct and expand an empire of liberty; and this liberty was indeed real. It was a moment in time when, as George Orwell once put it, men genuinely felt and genuinely were free. Orwell was speaking of the world chronicled by Mark Twain, but I believe it encompassed more than that: The America of the Revolution, the Civil War, and the great voyage into the West. It began to end with the closing of the West and the rise of the vast industrial empire that Orson Welles depicted in “The Magnificent Ambersons” as a town that “spread and darkened into a city.” That America existed. But it no longer exists. It is buried now beneath cars and highways and strip-malls and urban decay. It is ancient, archeological, waiting for rediscovery. That was the America of John Ford. America’s most honored and perhaps greatest filmmaker, Ford remains twentieth-century America’s only national bard, its only epic poet. Like Walt Whitman, he used the century’s quintessential art form to become the Homer of his age. From American Great to Reactionary Film Maker Ford is now distinctly unfashionable, seen as retrograde, reactionary (ironic, given his strongly liberal politics), reprehensibly macho; and, with the slow death of the Western, increasingly irrelevant. Yet the sheer quantity of his masterpieces is staggering: “The Informer,” “Stagecoach,” “The Grapes of Wrath,” “How Green Was My Valley,” “My Darling Clementine,” “The Quiet Man,” “The Searchers,” “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”… Even many of his secondary works, like “The Long Voyage Home,” would be the envy of any modern director. Yet his greatest film, the most Homeric of all American films, the quintessence of Ford’s homage to the America that was once and will not be again, was his first great film: “The Iron Horse.” Made at the height of the silent era, ‘The Iron Horse’ is an epic whose scope and ambition Ford would never attempt again. Made at the height of the silent era, “The Iron Horse” is an epic whose scope and ambition Ford would never attempt again. Appropriately, it depicts—indeed recreates—America’s first great continental endeavor: The building of the transcontinental railroad. At the same time, it counters this epic of a nation with an epic of the individual: There are historical figures as large as Abraham Lincoln, and as small as the pioneers who blazed the trails into the West and the immigrant workers who physically etched the great railroad into the stone of the continent, as well as the Indians who fought a desperate battle against them. It counters these with its fictional young hero who finds himself orphaned in the great wilderness and thus comes to personify the entire landscape of the ancient West, wandering from the Pony Express to the legendaria of the gunfighter to the vengeful child who finally seeks out the villain who murdered his father and reunites with the love of his life. Then, finally, he becomes the man who stands at the meeting point of the two great railroads, witnessing the realization of America’s and his own father’s dream. As such, it is a film of the vastest size and the most intimate frailty. It is awesome, torrential, and perhaps the most vivid retelling of the old, epic America in cinema. It is, as Woodrow Wilson once reportedly said, “history written with lightning.” No other film has ever achieved this perfect synthesis of vast scope and intimate emotion. This may be because it was only possible before the coming of sound. Using the silent film’s ability to leap between images, using only short titles rather than lengthy dialogue to explain itself, The Iron Horse encapsulates time and character with a speed and concision impossible in the sound film. A pioneer dreaming of a railroad spanning the vast continent can jump to President Lincoln approving it to a bar fight between drunken workers to the furious efforts of Chinese laborers to the machinations of corrupted landowners to officials constantly revising their plans to somehow conquer an unforgiving continent. It is all seamless, organic, and awe-inspiring. John Ford, Like that America, Is Not Yet Lost Forever Ford would attempt such things again and again over his 50-year career, but he never realized them as perfectly as he did the first time. Indeed, like Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Lodger,” “The Iron Horse” shocks the viewer because it is all there. Everything that would comes to define Ford’s work is fully formed: The sense of a mythic past; the transcendent beauty of and desperate battle against an unfeeling wilderness; the constant skirting of the edge of sentimentality, until a pure innocence of which any other director would be incapable is achieved; the affectionate depiction of the easy camaraderie and comic buffoonery of male friendship (including the drunken but noble Irishman that Ford’s stock actor Victor McLaglan would later play to perfection again and again); the furious, impossibly kinetic energy of its action scenes, including an Indian attack that anticipates the titanic climax of Stagecoach; and the bittersweet romance between two young people pure of heart but separated by circumstance. These would never again be united so seamlessly into a single work. We have lost John Ford the man. But we have not lost John Ford the bard, the artist, the epic poet. And there is the one thing every Ford movie would contain with consistent perfection: In every Ford film, there is one moment that brings the entire film together into a moment of absolute simplicity and absolute emotion, encapsulating a vast work into a single scene: The young man kneels before the track that has finally linked the Union and Central Pacific railroads. He grips it and then brings his hands together, uniting the historical and the personal: The realization of his father’s once-broken dream and the dreams of a country once torn apart by civil war, the redemption and rebirth of a continental nation. Then he turns, and his childhood love, whom he believed lost to another man, steps into the frame. He looks at her. She looks at him. And the scene fades away. There is no embrace, no kiss, no expressions of love. But everything is embraced, a nation is embraced, cinema is embraced, we are all embraced. We are all loved. As in all things Ford, tears are not jerked from the viewer; they well up from the depths of their own accord. Like such moments, like that ancient America, we have lost John Ford the man. But we have not lost John Ford the bard, the artist, the epic poet. We have not lost America’s Homer. But America has begun to ignore him. To turn away. To regret his presence. To become ashamed of his political incorrectness and oft-distorted image of chauvinistic sentimentalism. But America should not turn away. Because in Ford’s work is not only genius; but also empathy, love, beauty, and the great dream that those who dreamed it indeed lived. There is, in short, liberty—and with it, the more perfect union. Perhaps today’s America, crowded and contentious; torn by divisions political, racial, and economic; unsure of itself, its history, and its soul; should turn back to John Ford. Perhaps it needs him too much to let him go. ]]>
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    (Review Source)
  • Spielberg’s ‘Close Encounters’ Is A Masterpiece, But Incomplete
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ is when Spielberg switched from his early career, which was heavy on horror and terror, to the genial magician America has come to know and love.
    ...
    (Review Source)
  • The Top 10 Westerns Ever Made, Plus 10 More Deep Cuts
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    With their clear-eyed moral messaging, Westerns are a great antidote to much of the modern filmmaking landscape, where audiences are often asked to identify with the bad guy.
    ...
    (Review Source)
  • Here’s A Dueling List Of The Top 8 Westerns, Plus Actual Deep Cuts
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    ‘The Top 10 Westerns Ever Made, Plus 10 More Deep Cuts’ was deeply disappointing to this film buff. So here’s a deeper, better, alternative list.
    ...
    (Review Source)

Kyle Smith1
National Review



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • Two Words: No Duke
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    Such is Floyd’s verdict on my verdict of “True Grit” at Threedonia. I hasten to add that I have never been a John Wayne fan, mainly because Westerns bored me so colossally in my early childhood. I was slightly annoyed when I and every other future Army officer in training had to salute a life-size cutout of The Duke at the end of an obstacle course we once completed at Fort Bragg, in the summer of 1988. (If you failed to salute smartly, you had to repeat the program.) Yet even I, more of a Cary Grant acolyte, can acknowledge the magnificence of John Wayne in “True Grit.” (Which is the only John Wayne movie that really excites me. “The Searchers” is overrated. “Red River” is a bit better.) “Fill your hands, you son of a bitch”? It doesn’t get any better than that, really. The line is so good that simply remembering the way Wayne delivered it made me well up a bit when Jeff Bridges repeated it in the remake. It’s worth reading the comments at the always-excellent Threedonia site. “Maybe they’ll remake The Searchers with Orlando Bloom.” Heh. (Is Orlando Bloom over yet, by the way? Perhaps so.)]]>
    ...
    (Review Source)

PJ Media Staff1
PJ Media



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • With Django Unchained, Is QT Devolving Into the Weird Al Yankovic of Cinema?
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    Lifestyle var dataLayer = window.dataLayer = window.dataLayer || []; dataLayer.push({ 'videoName': 'Django Unchained Official Trailer #2 (2012) - Quentin Tarantino Movie HD', 'videoType': 'Curated' }); Despite asinine comments by Quentin Tarantino, who has called our present criminal-justice arrangements “slavery through and through,” and Jamie Foxx, who has boasted that “I kill all the white people” in the Tarantino-directed Django Unchained, the movie isn’t especially inflammatory about race.The title character, an ex-slave, doesn’t kill all the white people. In fact, his best friend and co-hero is a white, European dentist turned bounty hunter played by Christoph Waltz, who won an Oscar as the dapper but terrifying Nazi colonel in Inglourious Basterds. Moreover, one of the chief villains of Django is played, in a surprise, by Samuel L. Jackson as a house slave who despises Django with a fury that makes him a perfect match for the wicked plantation owner (Leonardo DiCaprio) for whom he works.Mostly, the movie is an incredibly violent, incredibly long, and often very funny popcorn picture with its roots in both spaghetti Westerns of the 1960s and blaxploitation movies of the 1970s. The quintessentially Tarantino moment comes when racist whites seeking to kill Django and his dentist friend form a posse of rough riders with bags over their heads (presaging the Ku Klux Klan) in 1858. The vigilante group (including former Miami Vice star Don Johnson as an easily outsmarted plantation boss and Jonah Hill in a cameo) falls into squabbling over a dispute about the craftsmanship of the bags. It’s a hilarious disquisition reminiscent of the argument about Madonna in Reservoir Dogs or the details of dining at a French McDonald’s in Pulp Fiction.Other scenes in the movie may remind you of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or The Searchers, but the closest resemblance is to.... Blazing Saddles. Just as Gene Wilder and Cleavon Little joined forces as equals and shocked racists in Mel Brooks’ 1972 comedy (which was co-written by Richard Pryor), Waltz and Foxx make for a fine pair of gunslingers who don’t care what haters think of their friendship. They wander the South getting in and out of trouble as they search for Django’s wife (Kerry Washington), who is being tortured at the evil plantation run by Calvin Candie (DiCaprio). Django, a former slave, has received his freedom and a new job as bounty hunter courtesy of King Schultz (Waltz), who needs Django’s help in recognizing three men whom Schultz will receive a hefty fee for killing. var dataLayer = window.dataLayer = window.dataLayer || []; dataLayer.push({ 'videoName': 'Where The White Women At? - Blazing Saddles', 'videoType': 'Curated' }); class="pages"> https://pjmedia.com/lifestyle/2012/12/28/the-weird-al-yankovic-of-cinema/ previous Page 1 of 2 next   ]]>
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    (Review Source)

Mark Steyn1
Fox News



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • Westward the Women
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    Guest columnist Kathy Shaidle hates westerns, yet still has a bit of a soft spot for this 1951 film, she writes in this week's Mark at the Movies.
    ...
    (Review Source)

The Weekly Standard Staff1
The Weekly Standard



(Reviewers' Site/Bio)

  • Screen Tests
    (”The Searchers” is briefly mentioned in this.)
    Richard Schickel—the Time critic who has been writing about movies for a living since 1965—estimates in the opening chapter of Keepers that he has seen roughly “22,590 films, or about 294 of them a year. Which means that two out of every three days, for a long time now, I have been at the movies.” Keepers is the distillation of a lifetime of moviegoing knowledge, a collection of must-sees with a few don’t-bothers thrown in to keep things lively. It also serves as a kind of memoir for Schic
    ...
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