The exchange between me and Jeff here got me thinking of this excerpt from an essay that Lewis Lapham wrote in the April 1994 issue of Harper's:
What Russell Baker said of the midwinter Super Bowl also can be said of action films. The semi-annual festivals of violence serve as soporifics, not as stimulants, and the critics who think otherwise, who mistake a sophomore's fantasy of suburban revenge for an incitement to urban riot, might do well to reread Shakespeare or Homer. Neither author was squeamish about the depiction of violence, butthey had it in mind to describe the actual world of human character and event, not the fairy-tale land of wish and dream.And so on. Thoughts?
Maybe it's my age, but if I replay in my mind the sequence of brutal images that I remember seeing in the movies over the last twenty-odd years, I'm struck by their increasingly cartoonish character, which makes it difficult for me to take seriously the fretting of people like Senators Simon and Hollings. Were I to do so, I first would have to grant their prior assumption that the movies under review possess the force of art, that they can awaken in the mind of their audiences emotions strong enough to excite action or thought.
But once divorced from the emotional contexts of human suffering, the scenes of violence lose both meaning and power, and it was this weakness of which I was pointedly reminded in late January when I had occasion to read passages of the Iliad (assigned as homework to my twelve-year-old son) on the same evening that HBO presented Eastwood in Pale Rider -- i.e., as Achilles on the old American frontier bringing rough but divine justice to the wayward operators of a California mining camp. The distance between the two variations on the theme of vengeance is the distance between newsreel footage of the Normandy invasion and a fashion photograph promoting Bugle Boy jeans.
Here is Homer, in the translation by Robert Fagles, describing the death of the warrior Harpalion:But Meriones caught him in full retreat, he let flyOr again, on a different day and in another part of the Trojan plain, Achilles killing Polydorus, Hector's brother:
with a bronze-tipped arrow, hitting his right buttock
up under the pelvic bone so the lance pierced his bladder.
He sank on the spot, hunched in his dear companion's arms,
gasping out his life as he writhed along the ground
like an earthworm stretched out in death, blood pooling,
soaking the earth dark red...[Achilles] speared him square in the back where his war-belt clasped,The lines evoke the emotions of terror and fear because Homer employs the imagination as a means of apprehending reality rather than as a means of escaping it. Or, as Bernard Knox puts it in his fine introduction to Fagles's gtranslation, "Men die in the Iliad in agony; they drop, screaming, to their knees, reaching out to beloved companions, gasping their life out, clawing the ground with their hands; they die roaring, like Asius, raging, like the great Sarpedon, bellowing, like Hippodamas, moaning, like Polydorus."
golden buckles clinching both halves of his breastplate --
straight on through went the point and out the navel,
down on his knees he dropped --
screaming shril as the world went black before him --
clutched his bowels to his body, hunched and sank.
The gunmen in the Eastwood film fall like targets in a shooting gallery. We see blood spurt from their bodies, but because we never understand them as men, never see them as anything other than symbolic manifestations of evil dressed in matching greatcoats that could have been designed by Ralph Lauren, we look at their deaths as clever tropes. I don't think it improbable that Eastwood intended the movie as an epic metaphor. The camera dwells lovingly on the bleak landscape of the high desert, on the deserted street, on the tentative wooden town lost in an immense wilderness under an empty sky, and I imagine that he intended the figure on horseback, identified simply as "the preacher," to stand as an emblem of righteousness. But after all the gunmen have been punished, the town purified, and the preacher gone over the horizon, nothing has been said that might evoke in the audince even the slightest hint of pity or awe.
Homer can vividly imagine the desolation of death, because he so vividly delights in the spring and surge of life. A surprisingly large number of lines in the Iliad speak of the joys of peace, of fast ships and wide-ranging flocks, of the generations succeeding one another in a bright and rapturous dance, of young boys in "fine-spun tunics rubbed with a gloss of oil" and young girls "crowned with a bloom of fresh garlands." Meaning to sing not only the wrath of Achilles but also the preciousness of the life that he so wantonly destroys, Homer imparts to his poem the heavy sense of tragic loss, and I read his lines with fear and dread. I come across Thestor, "cowering, crouched in his fine polished chariot, / crazed with fear," and I remember that as a young newspaper reporter in San Francisco I was surprised by the smell of death in furnished rooms, by the victims of automobile accidents and multiple stab wounds losing command of their bowels, sobbing like children, afraid of the dark, never coming up with a smart remark.
But when I look at Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson annihilating gargoyles, nothing remains of the mess and stink of death. The omission is deliberate. Just as the smiling hosts in the NFL broadcast booths turn fastidiously away from the injured players twisted in pain on the forty-yard line, the manufacturers of synthetic murder delete the sight of human beings reduced to earthworms. Their cameras lift lightly into the air, en route to the next automobile chase or pillar of fire, and although I know that Senators Hollings and Simon like to say that the soul of the nation's youth remains trapped in the burning wreckage with the drug money and the Guatemalan hit men, I think that they underestimate the sophistication of an audience that knows the difference between what is real and what is make-believe. Each of my own children, well before they reached the age of nine, understood Die Hard and Lethal Weapon 2 as video games.
If the Hollywood daydreams lately have become louder and more violent, I suspect that it's because the higher quotients of public anxiety and alarm stimulate the need for stronger sedatives.