Transcription
You know, it's been quite a while since I've done a wanky, pretentious video essay. And the truth is, I've kind of missed it. I like doing that kind of thing. It's one of the reasons I started this channel in the first place.
And as fun as it can be to rant and rave about the latest piece of cinematic sewage excreted by the not so great minds of Hollywood, it's also nice to be reminded that movies at their best can be something truly special and why they're worth fighting for. And truly, movies don't come much more special than Unforgiven.
The 1992 Clint Eastwood epic revisionist western about an agent former bounty hunter pulled back into his old life in a somber and reflective tale of revenge, corruption, and redemption that tried and amazingly enough actually succeeded at both deconstructing, but also paying tribute and saying a poignant and respectful farewell to the mythmaking and tall tales of the Wild West. Wow, imagine that. Imagine deconstructing something without turning it into a [ __ ] joke.
It's a movie that doesn't just tell a great story with an incredible cast and some absolutely gorgeous cinematography. It also has a lot to say about the genre that it's part of and the decades of embellishment and romanticism that have been layered on top of it. It's a flawless example of how to deconstruct a genre without destroying it, stripping away the layers of polish and [ __ ] to expose a more meaningful truth at the core. And well, it's a movie I've been wanting to dissect properly for a long time now. So, grab your six shooter and saddle up, partner, because we've got a long ride ahead of us.
Unforgiven kicks off in the frontier town of Big Whiskey, where a couple of cowboys attack and disfigure a local prostitute because she laughed at one of them for having a small dick. Boy, that escalated quickly. I mean, that really got out of hand fast. I mean, straight away the film makes it pretty clear. This isn't going to be some noble adventure like the days of John Wayne and Gary Cooper. This is much darker, grittier, brutal, and well, realistic.
The rest of the girls go to the local sheriff, Little Bill Daget, looking for justice, but funnily enough, they don't find much. Little Bill doesn't think much of the working girls, and he knows that hanging two criminals would only spark a war with the rest of the gang. So, he's content to maintain an uneasy peace. Deciding instead to take matters into their own hands, the girls pull their savings and offer a thousand bounty to anyone that can bring the two men to justice, dead or alive.
This is where our main man, William Money, comes into the picture. Once a notorious gunslinger, he's now an aging farmer and family man trying his best to put his old life behind him. But the farm's struggling and he needs the money. So reluctantly, he teams up with his old partner Ned and a brash young gunfighter who calls himself the Scoffield kid to take on the bounty and eventually they manage to hunt down and kill both men.
Little Bill, on the other hand, hears news of the various bounty hunters converging on his town and decides to put a stop to it. Pronto. Tensions finally come to a head when Ned gets captured by Little Bill and tortured to death, causing a vengeful drunken money to ride into town and take revenge for his friend, finally reverting to the man he tried. so hard to leave behinds.
Now, to understand why this movie was so significant, you have to look at it in the context of its time. The western genre was effectively dead and buried by the 1990s. After the golden age of the 40s and 50s, the spaghetti westerns and teamup movies of the 60s and 70s, the whole genre finally sputtered out and died by the 1980s. There was no more public appetite for western adventures, and apparently no more stories left to tell. All except one that is.
See, Clint Eastwood by this point was well into his 60s and looking to leave behind his tough guy action hero persona so he could tackle more thoughtful mature films going forwards. But he wanted to say goodbye properly to the genre that had launched his career. And as it happened, he'd been sitting on the script for Unforgiven for years, just waiting until he was old enough to play the main character. And by the early 1990s, the time was right.
killed just about everything that walks or crawled at one time or another. And I'm here to kill you, little Bill. >> You know, I could spend hours waxing lyrical about the incredible performances in Unforgiven, the sparse but brilliantly effective dialogue, the fascinating characters, the superb direction, and the somber, evocative soundtrack. But in a way, that would be doing the film a disservice because where it really excels is in what it's trying to say to the audience, the themes and ideas that it explores. And I don't mean in some preachy pandering identity politics kind of way. I mean it's something far deeper and more meaningful.
The first and most obvious of which is the myth versus the grim reality of the old west. So much of this film is concerned with dismantling and deconstructing the glamorous cowboy and gunslinger legend. Characters like English Bob and the Scoffield kid spin tall tales of heroic shootouts and legendary gunfights. But the reality is far more messy, brutal, and unglamorous. Killings are awkward, terrifying, and often pathetic. Men die whimpering and begging for mercy, or caught helpless and unawares.
The best example of this dichotomy is English Bob, a bounty hunter who makes his way to Big Whiskey, partly for the thousand reward, but partly to inflate his own reputation with the biographer who's there to document the whole thing. Bob knows all too well that the days of the Old West, of gun battles and frontier adventures are coming to an end now. That there are fewer and fewer people around who remember what it was actually like. And that the age of mythmaking and romanticism is just taken off. And he's there to exploit it. He's styled himself as a classic gentleman gunfighter, elegant, refined, and well-dressed. He even has an upper class aristocratic accent. Well, there's a dignity in loyalty, a majesty which precludes the likelihood of assassination. >> He spins exaggerated tales of mythical jewels and epic gun battles to his eager biographer who's already writing sensational novels about his exploits. But as we soon find out, his reputation is entirely built on lies and exaggeration. The moment he encounters Little Bill, his mask slips and his real, much more common accent shows through. Bill. Bill. Well, I thought you was um But I thought that you were dead. >> So much for the gentleman gunfighter. Bill easily disarms him and beats the [ __ ] out of him in the middle of the street. And as he explains to Bob's biographer later, he's been lying about his entire career. In fact, one of the only gun battles that English Bob actually managed to win was a drunken brawl in his saloon where he only survived because his opponent's gun misfired.
His biographer, Buchamp, is also a vital thread that runs through the story, tying together three of the major characters, playing on his gullibility and romantic sensibilities. Bob feeds the writer heroic, embellished stories that he easily falls for. But after learning the truth about him and listening to little Bill's much more pragmatic view of the Wild West, Buchamp abandons English Bob and stays with Bill instead, basically transferring his hero worship to a new benefactor. Again, the film's making a point about how easily legends can be created, transferred, or in some cases abandoned. And keep that in mind, dear viewer, because it'll be important later.
The flip side to English Bob is the Scullfield kid, a young and ambitious wannabe gunfighter raised on the same tall tales and mythmaking that guys like Buchamp have been putting out. He represents youthful bravado, the seductive pool of violence and adventure, and the harsh awakening to reality. He's introduced as a brash, aggressive, and boastful young man who seeks out money to partner on the bounty for the cowboys. He carries a Scullfield revolver, hence the nickname, and constantly boasts about his supposed exploits. Like, he claims to have killed at least five men. He exaggerates the prostitute's injuries, even though he's never actually seen her. He talks tough, idolizing Money's legendary and horrific past as a cold-blooded killer without truly understanding it.
In reality, he suffers from acute short-sightedness. He can barely see beyond 50 yards, which is why he needs money's help. And his tough guy persona is compensation for his inexperience. He's the very embodiment of the dime novel gunslinger fantasy. Young, eager for glory, and completely naive about what killing actually entails. His poor eyesight's a literal plot device to bring in money and Ned to help him. But it's also an obvious piece of symbolism. He's shortsighted about where this is all leading and blind to the true cost of violence.
But he learns soon enough when the group ambushes the first cowboy Davyy Ned mortally wounds the guy but can't bring himself to finish him off, shattering the Scoffield kid illusions about how easy it is to kill a man. Instead, money has to finish the job. Later at the outhouse, the kid manages to ambush and kill the second cowboy quick Mike, catching him by surprise while he's taking a [ __ ]. This is definitely not a heroic showdown. It's sudden, ugly, and pathetic. Immediately afterwards, the kid breaks down and he confesses to Money that this was his first ever kill. He's never even shot anyone before. The glamour and heroism that he imagined for himself isn't there at all. Instead, there's just the horrifying reality that he took another human life. It also sparks one of the greatest lines in the entire movie. >> Well, I guess they had it coming. >> We all have it coming, kid.
By the time the group returns to collect the reward, the kid has become a changed man. He's quiet, somber, remorseful, and horrified by what he's done. He refuses his full share of the money, overwhelmed by guilt. When money urges him to buy some spectacles with his earnings so he can see properly again, there's a deeper meaning there. The kid has finally gained some kind of moral clarity, but at the cost of his own innocence. In the end, he vows never to kill again. He hands over his gun and rides away, choosing to abandon the life of a bounty hunter before it destroys him. Arguably the only character in the whole movie who finds true redemption before it's too late.
Another aspect of Unforgiven's story is the harsh reality of age and decline. When we first meet him, Will Money is a broken, aging, not particularly capable farmer haunted by his reputation as a cold-blooded killer. He found some kind of redemption in his late wife, but now that she's gone, you get the impression that he's not really comfortable with the new life he's made for himself. He has to keep telling his children how much he's changed, how he's a better man now. But it's pretty obvious it's not them he's trying to reassure. It's himself. He desperately wants to believe that he's put his gunslinging days behind him, but hard times and his failing business eventually pulls him back into his old life. Physically though, he's definitely not the man he once was. He struggles just to mount his horse without falling off it. His aim is poor and he's obviously slower and weaker than he used to be. When he gets caught up in bad weather, he soon falls ill with a fever, allowing him to get caught and overpowered by little Bill.
It's the same story with Ned, Money's old partner, who reluctantly comes along out of loyalty to his old buddy. Not only is he suffering from the usual ailments that come with age, but he's lost the killer instinct that he once had. He can't bring himself to finish off a wounded man and has to turn the gun over to money to do the deeds. Ned comes from the same background as money, but arguably he's been a bit more successful in leaving his past behind and trying to become a better man. He's the voice of reason and humanity amongst the group. He's calmer and more morally aware than money or the kid. He hesitates to kill the wounded cowboy Davyy, showing mercy and compassion even towards his enemy. His presence is there as a reminder to Money and the audience that killing isn't easy because it shouldn't be. He kind of represents what money might have become if he'd succeeded in reforming. He's in a loving relationship with his wife, Sally, in stark contrast to Money, who's widowed and alone, and he seems more at peace with leaving the old life behinds. Their conversations around the campfire revealed their shared history and Money's lingering guilt. Whereas Ned seems to have moved on more successfully.
After the group completes the job, Ned gets captured by Little Bill's men, he's brutally beaten and tortured to death, and Little Bill leaves his body displayed publicly as a warning. This act of sheer cruelty and humiliation is what finally transforms Money from a reluctant bounty hunter into the unstoppable killer that he used to be. Ned's death is the final emotional spark that ignites Money's revenge. And when he's finally unleashed, he's become a terrifying figure.
Opposing him is Little Bill, the sheriff of Big Whiskey and the antagonist of the movie. And what a fascinating antagonist he is. On the one hand, he represents law and order, but a twisted and compromised version of it. He's pragmatic and brutal in enforcing his version of order. Like his lenient punishment of the cowboys to avoid a full-scale conflict. His approach is upholding the law on the surface, but brutal and self-s serving underneath. He protects the town stability, but only on his own terms, showing contempt for the prostitutes that he considers beneath him and any outsiders that try to muscle their way in. He beats the [ __ ] out of English Bob and sends him on his way as a warning to other bounty hunters and vigilantes that he is the only form of justice out here. Why? Because they threaten his authority. If people can look for justice elsewhere for the right price, then what reason is there to even keep him around?
As the sheriff of town, he's the embodiment of flawed and corrupt authority and the myth versus reality tension at the heart of the film's story. Ironically enough though, he's the only character who's actually honest about the myths and legends of the Wild West. He gleefully deconstructs English Bob's sensational and egotistical exploits, tells some blunt truths about gunfighting, emphasizing cool-headedness and accuracy over speed, and pragmatically picks his battles rather than dying a hero. He can also be surprisingly charming and even patriarchal towards people that he knows aren't a threat to him, like Buchamp.
Little Bill serves as Money's dark mirror. Both of them are retired killers trying to leave violence behind. Money's genuine but failed attempts to reform through love and family, showing remorse for his past versus Little Bill, who uses his badge and authority to become a petty tyrant, enjoying the power without ever questioning the morality of what he does. He's got no real empathy or self-awareness, viewing himself as morally superior, while deep down he's just a bully and a petty cowards. Money confronts and finally embraces his demons while little Bill denies them to the very end.
All of this is reflected through the recurring theme of the crooked house, little Bill's half-built cabin, which he proudly shows off to anyone who comes near. It's crooked with no right angles and a leak roof, a perfect metaphor for his warped sense of order and morality, and his inability to construct a functional life for himself. Just like money, he's trying to build a more respectable and domesticated life after a violent past. Some of his comments imply that he used to be a gunfighter himself in fact and the house represents his desire for normality and legacy, but it always remains unfinished and flawed, just like his redemption will forever be incomplete because he lacks the moral character to become a better man. His dying words even echo this. >> I was building a house deserves nothing to do with it. >> The house, just like his new life, was building but never finished.
Last of all, I have to talk about William Money himself. What a protagonist he is. Once the most feared man in the West, a known thief and murderer, a man of notoriously vicious and inmperate disposition, money spent the last decade of his life trying to bury his past. After marrying a woman who, I guess, saw something redeemable in him, he gave up drinking and killing seemingly for goods. But she's gone now and he's a struggling farmer in Kansas, widowed with two small children, living in poverty with no real prospects for the future. His attempts to create a new life for himself are failing little by little, day by day.
When the Scoffield kid offers him a share of the thousand bounty for killing the cowboys, money initially refuses, but finally accepts out of sheer desperation, vowing not to slide back into his old ways. But little by little, he does. He repeatedly insists that I ain't like that no more. But when violence is required, somehow he always reverts to his old ways. He's haunted and worldweary. He's plagued by guilt and constant reminders of his dead wife and the dark past that he tried to leave behind. He often reflects on his mistakes during quieter moments in the movie. An aging man looking back on a life not well-lived. Arguably, he's the darkest character Clint Eastwood ever played. A man who, by his own admission, has killed women and children. who's almost afraid of himself and what he might become, and who ultimately loses the battle with his inner demons.
At the film's climax, after Ned's death, a drunken and griefstricken Money confronts Little Bill and the rest of his men in a brutal saloon gunfight, finally transitioning back to the cold-blooded killer he always was. And watching the whole thing is Buchamp. His eyes filled with wonder and inspiration. His mind already spinning it into a mythical confrontation that one day become part of the tapestry of the Old West. From the fake bluster and self agrandisement of English Bob to the grounded pragmatism and self-serving corruption of Little Bill to the cold brutal skill of William Money, he's finally found a hero fit for his novels. The worst possible kind of hero.
The truth is that William Money isn't a hero at all because he was never capable of being one. He's a man who briefly tasted redemption only to lose it through circumstance in his own nature. Eastwood plays him with minimal dialogue and maximum presence. A tired, sady killer who knows the cost of every bullet. By the end, when he rides away into the rainy darkness after taking brutal revenge, we're not really supposed to feel vindication. We feel exhaustion. He might have won the fight, but at the price of becoming exactly what he always feared, William Money stands as one of cinema's greatest anti-heroes, legendary, broken, and ultimately unforgiven.
Anyway, that right there is my little wanky video essay for the day. I mean, hopefully you enjoyed it and you got something interesting out of it because I think it's important to make things like this once in a while. It's important to remember the power of good storytelling, the legacy of truly great film making, and the need to always strive for something better. Anyway, that's all I've got for today. Go away now.