“Is emotional capacity, as figured by film, an entity of fixed dimension, so that if men are represented as more caring, women must be represented as caring less?”
It began with an email from Verona this spring. A doctoral student writing on masculinity in modern Westerns asked me to read her work, based on my current book project on postwar Westerns. In preparation for my new task, I viewed James Mangold’s 2007 remake of 3:10 to Yuma and Wim Wenders’ 2005 Don’t Come Knocking. Quite by happenstance, I also viewed Karl Markovics’ Atmen (Breathing; 2011) during the same period, as part of the New Directors/New Film series at Lincoln Center. The point of convergence among these films is the representation of fathers, all of whom struggle to form emotional bonds with their sons, gestures that I found especially moving, migrating as I temporarily was from the ferocious cinematic fathers of the 1940s and ’50s. Yet even as these films look forward, beyond retrograde models of paternity, it is possible to detect faint echoes of a now 30-year-old discussion from the days of 1979’s Kramer vs. Kramer: is emotional capacity, as figured by film, an entity of fixed dimension, so that if men are represented as more caring, women must be represented as caring less?
By contrast with these engaged and benevolent fathers, Westerns from the late 1940s and 1950s typically represent patriarchal figures as outsized nemeses, exemplars of a hegemonic masculinity that rules by the threat of violence. Think John Wayne in Red River, Burl Ives in The Big Country, Lee J. Cobb in Man of the West. Even in Winchester ’73, in which the father is never seen onscreen, having been killed by one of his sons in the back story, the father’s death nevertheless initiates a series of increasingly violent events that will end in brother literally hunting brother in a primitive, rocky landscape. Even when the father is absent, this film suggests, murder remains as the paternal legacy. Two notable and, as I will argue later, radical exceptions to this pattern are roles played by Van Heflin: the family men of 3:10 to Yuma and Shane.
Unlike their postwar cousins, the two modern Westerns assert not only the necessity of the father but both also restore him to a position of dignity, even if, as in the case of Don’t Come Knocking, he does not really deserve it. In fact, Don’t Come Knocking insists so powerfully on the role of the father that it engages in a kind of magical thinking about the curative power of his delayed appearance. Dad need only ride into town, no matter how late and bedraggled, and the wound of abandonment begins to heal. The film is not, however, entirely uncritical of Howard Spence, the “spent” father who resists being disturbed in his downward spiral of recklessness (played by Sam Shepard, also the film’s screenwriter). In fact, the film opens with an image of assessment — two “eyes” worn by the wind into the face of a sandstone ridge, the blue sky behind them staring like a pitiless gazer. Or could this be an image of Howard’s alienation from the characters he plays onscreen, with the visual suggestion that the two eyeholes are seen from the dark interior of a mask? Perhaps this image, which Wenders in the DVD commentary calls the “mask of Zorro,” refers to the many heroic roles Spence has played, even as his own behavior becomes less and less meritorious.
As the narrative begins, the father is already gone, the opening words of the script coming from the assistant director, “What are you telling me, ‘He’s not there’?” Howard Spence has abandoned the set of yet another Western, this one rich with the iconic arches and red dust of John Ford’s Monument Valley films. In his on-set trailer the crew finds only empty bottles, the remains of a cocaine binge, two clueless prostitutes, and a sign that reads “Don’t come knocking if the trailer’s rocking.” Along the route of his great escape, Howard discards the standard trappings of heroic masculinity — his cowboy boots, his fancy horse, his Western garb. During his odyssey from Moab through Nevada to Montana, Howard’s last displays of traditional masculine dominance are clownish: a boxing match with an arcade game and a drunken and futile struggle with a casino security guard, in which Wenders photographs Shepard against a mechanical claw game, the garish colors of the proffered toys speaking to the childish nature of his resistance. The inverted words “Game Over” flash over the image of Howard being hustled out of the building. Yet the past is not quite over for Howard. In stopping at his mother’s home, Howard learns of the existence of the child who gives his quest a focus. He travels to Montana to search for his son in his father’s old Buick from the 1950s, a car that more securely tethers him to the past as he journeys back to learn of old errors, lost women, new children.
Yet the gender-mysticism represented by the portentously named Sky, the daughter Howard never even missed, suggests a darker possibility — that Howard is ultimately irrelevant. Sky — perhaps hers are the cerulean eyes regarding Howard in the opening shot — is the sole character in the film whose mission never alters: to find her father after her mother’s recent death. Indeed, Sky hauls around her mother’s ashes throughout most of her time in Butte, trying to be as graceful as she can while shifting the bulky urn from arm to arm. And in a plot development that sounds like a creation myth, Sky turns out to be the key element in uniting father and son, as she hands Howard a piece of paper that provides Earl’s name and address, thus enabling a rendezvous crucial for their rapprochement. She even brings the doughnuts and coffee in time for the reconciliation.
Another possibility is that the relevance of paternal authority is gender-specific: other men, mostly sons, are the one who need fathers to uphold their commitments. In this regard, 3:10 to Yuma similarly suggests that men matter more to other men than to women, yet it does so by making the women even more irrelevant that they were in the ’50s version of the story. Indeed, by contrast, Daves’ 3:10 to Yuma engages in surprising play with both genre and gender expectations, offering a film that presents domesticity as a kind of salvation. In this way, the ’50s film offers a more progressive vision of the significance of gender and family.
Like many larger-than-life myths, this one too demands a death: Dan will not live to enjoy the worship of his son. What he will also not live to see is Wade’s escape from Yuma prison. This is merely one of several details that suggest that this new leap may mean less than it did in Daves’ film. In the remake Wade earlier confides that he had twice already broken out of Yuma prison. In addition, as the train pulls away from Contention, we hear Wade’s low whistle and see his well-trained horse gallop alongside the train. Thus the film both demands a sacrifice and then decreases its value. Dan’s efforts matter only to build the myth of paternal power. To save that myth, though, the film must excise Daves’ radical vision of a new kind of masculinity in favor of a more traditional view.
That narrative follows a familiar pattern, though it is deftly handled. The young man, nearly speechless through much of the film, initially feels alienated at work, observing rather than participating in the handling of the dead. The other, older workers mock him for his criminal background and his hesitancy at the sight of the bodies the men prepare for burial or cremation. Over time, though, their shared activities, which reveal the essentially good character of the boy, bind them together, and they gradually become friends. Throughout this story, it is the charity and kindness of the men that stands forth, perhaps even more dramatically than the revelation of Roman’s secret crime and his search for his absent, though living, mother. The men’s generous humanity extends not only to themselves but also, and most strikingly, to the bodies they handle. In perhaps the film’s most significant scene, Roman and his gruff adversary at the mortuary dress the body of an old woman with extraordinary care and compassion. At a time when all humans are at their most vulnerable, these men treat them with an efficient kindness, a gesture associated more with women than with men. Indeed, Markovics, speaking at a post-screening interview, said that the entire film began with that image, which appeared unbidden in his mind. From its genesis, he created a plot that would realistically place a young man at that scene and a set of circumstances that would make that work meaningful for him.
From my work on postwar Westerns I am so accustomed to see male relationships devolve into violence that I watched Atmen in nervous anticipation of the men’s interaction, repeatedly asking myself, “Will this be the scene in which they erupt in loud confrontation?” Yet the film’s grace — and, again, “kindness” is the word that keeps coming to mind — seemed to be engaged in the quiet work of crafting a new model of masculinity, one composed of “tenderness and gentleness and consideration” to quote Deborah Kerr’s character, Laura Reynolds, in Tea and Sympathy, when she critiques her husband’s ideal of a manhood based on “swagger and swearing and mountain climbing.” By contrast, something of extraordinary delicacy and generosity happens in Markovics’ film.
Disappointingly, however, the relation between men and women in all these films is still figured as a zero-sum solution. If men are benevolent, women are heartless, irrelevant, or simply absent. If men are sinners, women are saints. In Atmen, the representation of females offers them limited humanity, for they range only from Roman’s homicidal mother (who confesses that she sent him to the orphanage after attempting to smother him with a pillow), to the nagging, disembodied voice of the ex-wife of Roman’s parole officer, to the simply dead, their bodies naked, scarred, and mute. In 3:10 to Yuma, Dan’s wife, so essential in Daves’ film, is reduced to a nearly silent role, fitting more the stereotype of women in traditional Westerns than the actual, vital roles women played in many of those films. In Don’t Come Knocking, a group of preternaturally kind women makes no demands on the fallen hero who left them all so long ago.
Is that what’s happening in Atmen? Is it merely adapting to “shifts in the social climate” by characterizing its male father-figures as healers and mentors rather than as the bullies and martinets of the past? I hope not. I do not accuse any these films of bad faith: art that celebrates a fuller emotional range for men while creating works of beauty and power — which all these films are — is to be hailed. But I would like to urge that we move beyond the simplistic binary politics of films like Kramer vs. Kramer to craft a better ideal of masculinity, one that allows men greater emotional range without either mystifying the power of the father or vilifying, ignoring or sanctifying women.
Works Cited
Ross, Andrew. “The Great White Dude.” Constructing Masculinity. Ed. Maurice Berger, Brian Wallis, and Simon Watson. New York: Routledge, 1995. 167-75. Print.