Sixguns and Society: A Structural Study of the Western [Reprint 2019 ed.] 9780520340787

Citation preview

S i x Ghaxis a n d . S o c i e t y

Six

Quns

-ZI. S t r u . c t u . r a . 1 S t i a . d . y o f

tlie

"SZSTestern

Toy

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS BERKELEY

LOS ANGELES

LONDON

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England Copyright © 1975, by The Regents of the University of California Designed by H e n r y Bennett ISBN 0-520-02753-1 Library of Congress Catalog Card N u m b e r : 74-77735 Printed in the United States of America

To my mother who taught me to love music and kindness and my father who taught me to love Westerns

Contents

Preface 1 Introduction: The Myth and the Method 2 The Structure of Myth 3 The Structure of the Western Film INTRODUCTION: The Films The Classical Plot The Vengeance Variation The Transition Theme The Professional PJot 4 Myth as a Narrative of Social Action 5 Individuals and Values: The Classical Plot 6 Individuals Against Values: The Vengeance Variation 7 Groups and Techniques: The Professional Plot 8 Myth and Meaning Methodological Epilogue Appendix Bibliography Index

1 4 16 29 29 32 59 74 85 124 130 154 164 185 195 203 213 215

IFrefsice

Everyone's seen a Western. Most people like them, some do not, but no American and few in the world can escape their influence. The Marlboro Man made Marlboro the best-selling cigarettes in the world; pintos, mustangs, mavericks are popular automobiles as well as animals and images from the Western; dude ranches do a thriving business, turning up even in Germany; western clothing is fashionable; rodeos are the most popular spectator sport in America. Two men face off to determine the fastest draw in northern Thailand, and both are killed. John Wayne, once simply a symbol of masculinity, is now both the symbol of masculinity and male chauvinism. And then there is that fine commercial in which Slim Pickens, in a cowboy hat, is driving across the desert when his car gets a flat tire—so he shoots it. There are the movies—and the TV shows—and the novels. We are all familiar with the Western, which has had many commentators. In 1950, Henry Nash Smith dismissed it in The Virgin Land: Devoid alike of ethical and social meaning, the Western story could develop in no direction save that of a straining and exaggeration of its formulas. It abandoned all effort to be serious, and by 1889 . . . it had sunk to the near-juvenile level it was to occupy with virtually no change down to our present day. (Smith, p. 135)

On the other hand, many film critics and armchair analysts have hailed its wild beauty, reveled in its masculine violence, condemned its incipient fascism, discovered the American trauma in its arid deserts, and found repressed significance in the fast draw. Yet there 1

2

PREFACE

have been no serious, systematic studies of the Western as a cultural genre, a popular set of stories, an American myth. So I have undertaken one. I have entered this new, untamed territory armed with a theory, a methodology, and a set of data; with these weapons, together with Truth and Justice, I intend to drive out the evil ranchers, railroad men, and professors in order to show that there is redeeming social value in this seemingly barren intellectual wasteland. The theory and methodology I will develop as I go along, borrowing tricks from the earlier trailblazers in similar lands—anthropologists, literary critics, philosophers. The data, however, belongs to all of us—the Western movies of the last four decades, the glorious and ridiculous shoot-'em-ups of our childhood and, happily, of our adulthood as well. John Wayne, Gary Cooper, James Stewart; gunfights, saloon brawls, schoolmarms, dance-hall girls, necktie parties, stampedes, wagon trains, Indian attacks, saddle tramps; mountains, deserts, forests, plains; horses, cattle, railroads; white hats and black hats—all are familiar to us. While gangster films, romantic comedies, war dramas, spy movies, and police films have come and gone, the Western has remained popular. The purpose of this book is to explain its popularity. While the Western itself may seem simple (it isn't quite), an explanation of its popularity cannot be; for the Western, like any myth, stands between individual human consciousness and society. If a myth is popular, it must somehow appeal to or reinforce the individuals who view it by communicating a symbolic meaning to them. This meaning must, in turn, reflect the particular social institutions and attitudes that have created and continue to nourish the myth. Thus, a myth must tell its viewers about themselves and their society. This study, which takes up the question of the Western as an American myth, will lead us into abstract structural theory as well as economic and political history. Mostly, however, it will take us into the movies, the spectacular and not-so-spectacular sagebrush of the cinema. Unlike most works of social science, the data on which my analysis is based is available to all of my readers, either at the local theater or, more likely, on the late, late show. I hope you will take the opportunity, whenever it is offered, to check my findings and test my interpretations; the effort is small and the rewards are many. And if your wife, husband, mother, or child asks you why you are wasting your time staring at Westerns on TV in the middle of the night, tell them firmly—as I often did—that you are doing research in social science. Much of this work falls into the category of "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." Unlike John Wayne, though, I had help

PREFACE

3

when the going got tough. A t Berkeley, Leo Lowenthal, Neil Smelser, Reinhard Bendix, and Alan Dundes supplied me with the weapons, ammunition, and strategy for a successful campaign. David Frisby led the cavalry charge to the rescue at the last moment. Hugh Mehan and Benetta Jules-Rossette backed me up for the final shoot-out. Trudy O'Brien, Jan Wilber, Beverly Strong, Susan Miller, and Corinne Cacas—schoolmarms and dance-hall girls all—proved to be the fastest typists and collators in the West. Finally, there is the man from Montana, Brian O'Brien, w h o did nothing at all except remain a good friend and a fellow connoisseur of fine c o w b o y movies.

1 Introduction: The Ivlytii and.

th.e ^£otliod

A lone rider, sitting easily in the saddle of his dusty horse, travels across the plains toward a small, new town with muddy streets and lively saloons. He wears a tattered, wide-brimmed hat, a loose-hanging vest, a bandanna around his neck, and one gun rests naturally at his side in a smooth, well-worn holster. Behind him, the empty plains roll gently until they end abruptly in the rocks and forests that punctuate the sudden rise of towering mountain peaks. For most Americans, and for a large percentage of the world's population, this scene is familiar, though few people have ever actually experienced it. It does not simply present a familiar setting, it envelops the setting in social and moral meanings which are immediately understood. The scene literally tells a story, for it recreates the settling of the American West, a time and a history which, as someone said, if it did not really happen, it should have. Certainly the West was wild, but even at its wildest, the actual events could not possibly have included the many stories of glory and suffering, heroism and savagery, love and sacrifice, that the Western myth has produced. Yet somehow, the historical reality of the West provided fertile soil for the growth and development of myth. T h e result has been one of the richest narrative traditions of modern times. Western novels have been popular in America since the middle of the nineteenth century, and similar tales of the West—often written by men who never even visited America—have stirred the European imagination for generations. According to a recent commentator, novels of the West constituted 10.64 percent of all works 4

INTRODUCTION

5

of fictions published in America in 1958, and 7.08 percent in 1967, (Cawelti, pp. 2-3). In 1903, Edwin Porter made The Great Train Robbery, which was not only the first Western film but the first film to use cross-cutting (cutting between simultaneous events in different locations) to tell a story. Since that time, the Western has become a favorite of moviegoers and has greatly expanded the popularity and significance of the Western myth. American Westerns have become popular throughout Europe and in Africa, Asia, and South America; in recent years, Italy, Spain, Germany, and Japan have begun to make their own Western movies. Of course, since the early fifties, television has become a major source of Western adventure. Cawelti reports that, during on average television week in Chicago in 1967, eighteen hours of Westerns were shown on the four major channels between the hours of six and ten in the evening—16 percent of the total viewing time. The enormous popularity of the wild West could perhaps be attributed to cultural interest in a unique and colorful era of our history, but this explanation becomes unconvincing when the actual history is examined. The crucial period of settlement in which most Westerns take place lasted only about thirty years, from 1860 to 1890. In 1861 the Indian wars began as the Cheyenne found the Colorado gold miners invading their lands, and in 1862 the Homestead A c t was passed. By 1890 all the American Indians had been either exterminated or placed on reservations; in 1889 the last unoccupied region in the West, the Oklahoma territory, was opened to homesteaders with a massive land rush. Between these events, the major Indian wars were fought, and cattle empires blossomed and withered. The great Texas cattle drives to the Kansas c o w towns, the inspiration for much of the Western myth, lasted only from 1866 to 1885. Even if w e include the period of the California gold rush and the first wagon trains to Oregon, the entire period of western settlement lasted less than fifty years. In contrast, the settling of the eastern frontier—from the Atlantic to the Great Plains—required at least 130 years; yet apart from Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, Natty Bumpo, and Paul Bunyan, this era is not rich in mythical figures and events, and even these stalwart heroes have a minor status in the modern imagination compared with the cowboys, gunfighters, and gamblers of the golden West. A more likely explanation for the West's appeal as a setting for romance is the fact that there, for a brief time, many ways of life were available, each of which contained its own element of adventure. There were farmers, cowboys, cavalrymen, miners, Indian fighters, gamblers, gunfighters, and railroad builders, all contem-

6

INTRODUCTION

porary with one another. Though these different types may have had little contact with each other, as a source of narrative inspiration the variety of livelihoods allows for clear-cut conflicts of interest and values. The fictional interaction of different kinds of men often makes details of motivation unnecessary and intensifies the force of their situational antagonisms. Set in a historical context where these differences are believable, stories that utilize this potential can readily portray fundamental conflicts by relying on the established meanings of the various types. There have been other frontiers, but probably none as rich in different and conflicting activities within a remarkably compressed period. Life on the eastern frontier of America was probably just as exciting—or dull—as in the West, but the East never offered at one time such a wide variety of occupations. In the early days, you were a trapper or a guide or an Indian fighter, and later you were a farmer or a merchant, but there was not much interaction or many alternatives. Hence, in spite of its actual and more prolonged adventure, the East could never match the social turmoil of the West as a context for fiction, and more precisely, as a ground for myth. The real but limited use of violence to settle differences in the West is simply the final rationale for the transformation of a historical period into a mythical realm in which significant social conflicts and abrupt, clear resolutions can be made both believable and meaningful in a readily understandable way. If this explains the choice of this historical setting, how can we understand the meaning of the myth itself? What is the appeal of stories about a way of life absolutely different from that of their modern audiences? There have been remarkably few serious efforts to analyze and interpret the Western myth. It is as though its mass appeal has made it unworthy of dignified scholarly research. From time to time essays have appeared that offer capsule explanations, which generally fall into two categories: the Western, as satisfaction of social needs or the Western as satisfaction of psychological needs. Preeminent in the first category is André Bazin, the French critic, who argues that "these Western myths . . . may be reduced to an essential principle: . . . the relation between law and morality" (Bazin, p. 145). Others include David Brian Davis, who believes that the Western represents the conflict of the ethic of work with the ethic of leisure, and Peter Homans, who sees in the Western a legitimation of violence in a context of Puritan control over feelings. Similarly, Robert Warshow finds the significance of the Western to lie in the fact that "it offers a serious orientation to the problem of violence" (Warshow, p. 103). In a recent study, John Cawelti argues

INTRODUCTION

7

that "the Western affirms the necessity of society" by presenting and resolving "the conflict between key American values like progress and success and the lost virtues of individual honor, heroism, and natural freedom" (Cawelti, p. 80). Finally, Jim Kitses vividly contends that the Western opposes Wilderness to Civilization: "What we are dealing with here, of course, is no less than a national world-view: . . . the isolation of a vast unexplored continent, the slow growth of social forms, the impact of an unremitting New England Puritanism obsessed with the cosmic struggle of good and e v i l . . . . We can speak of the genre's celebration of America, of the contrasting images of Garden and Desert, as national myth" (Kitses, pp. 12, 14). These explanations, which are interesting and suggestive, share a common, implicit theoretical orientation. All assume that an emotionally felt cultural conflict is expressed and thereby displaced or resolved in individuals. The suggested conflicts are m a n y progress versus freedom, law versus morality, violence versus Puritan control—but, though these explanations contain valid insights into American culture, they cannot account for the popularity of the Western myth. It is doubtful that many of us who enjoy Westerns worry very much about progress versus freedom or Garden versus Desert, and the only source of evidence for the existence of these conflicts is the myth itself. An argument that attempts to explain a myth through a conflict that can only be found in the myth itself is necessarily suspect. The real difficulty with this kind of explanation, however, is that it attempts to interpret a rich and varied mythical form in terms of one specific social or cultural dynamic. The myth is thereby separated from the everyday concerns and actions of most people in the society, who cannot constantly be plagued by that particular psychological strain. Yet it is precisely these everyday concerns and actions that the myth is designed to make more bearable, through the reinforcing power of what we call entertainment. Other commentators on the Western have stressed its relation to psychological need. F. E. Emery claims that the myth is popular because audiences "experience some sense of 'fit' or harmony between it and certain of their own unconscious inner needs and tensions" (Emery, p. 11). Cawelti argues that the Western reflects an "archetypal pattern" such as "the adolescent's desire to be an adult and his fear and hesitation about adulthood" (Cawelti, p. 82). Kenneth Munden believes the myth symbolizes the central conflicts of the Oedipus Complex, conflicts which are not cultural but are rather based on "the decisive, universal, emotional relationships that exist between every child and its parents, no matter what variable

8

INTRODUCTION

environmental factors be introduced" (Munden, p. 144). Analyses such as these attribute the Western's popularity to universal and unconscious needs. The setting and actions of the Western are interpreted as an elaborate cultural code that both expresses and obscures the real, biological meaning of the myth. In such a code, for example, the hero represents childhood or the hero's gun the penis. By claiming universal, unconscious necessity for its central conflict, this approach avoids the problem of h o w w e can enjoy Westerns without constantly worrying about the trauma. But it raises another, and greater, problem: the code that interprets the myth—hero = childhood, gun = penis—is part of the theory that explains the meaning of the myth. Thus, there is no w a y that the Western itself can validate the psychological theory. Until there is a clear, external translation of cultural images into biological meanings, no verifying evidence for such explanations, other than elegance of fit, can be produced. But the central problem with the psychological approach is that it either ignores or denies the fact that the Western, like other myths, is a social phenomenon. If its meaning is universal and emotional, then the particular social structure and institutions only determine its code; they have nothing to do with its meaning. Once again, this is a claim that is made because the theory demands it, not because of any evidence in the Western itself. Indeed, all the evidence is to the contrary, particularly the fact that the plot structure of the Western has changed dramatically over the forty years considered by this study, a fact difficult to explain if the meaning of the myth is universal, biological, and therefore static. A s commonly practiced, both the social and the psychological approaches to myth share a common assumption that limits their analytic power as w e l l as their ability to grasp the Western as an experienced whole. Both assume that a myth reflects a shared concern with a specific conflict in attitudes or desires. Further, they assume that if this conflict is not somehow displaced or resolved, an emotional tension or disturbance will result. Circumstances create a specific and widespread incompatibility of needs, and the myth is popular and successful insofar as it contributes to the satisfaction of those needs and the circumvention of the associated emotional tensions. From this perspective, the myth can only be understood in terms of one overriding emotional dynamic. This approach to the study of myth is derived from the theories of the great anthropologists and their interpretations of tribal myths. Until recently, tribal myths were v i e w e d as emotional, irrational ways of expressing social value and psychological conflict. Thus, for Radcliff-Brown the myths of the Andaman Islanders function

INTRODUCTION

9

to reoncile the social order with the natural order; "the myths satisfactorily fulfil their function not by any appeal to the reasoning powers of the intellect but by appealing, through the imagination, to the mind's affective dispositions" (Georges, p. 65). For Malinowski, the Trobriand myths reinforce "custom" and "magic" as distinct from "actual historical reality," and "thus we can define myth as a narrative of events which are to the native supernatural" (Georges, p. 78). Finally, for Clyde Kluckhohn, Navaho myths resolve cultural or psychological anxieties through reaction formation, introjection, and projection: The all-pervasive configurations of word symbols (myths) and of act symbols (rituals) preserve the cohesion of the society and sustain the individual, protecting him from intolerable c o n f l i c t . . . . Mythology is the rationalization . . . of the fundamental "needs" of the society, whether "economic," "biological," "social," or "sexual." (Georges, pp.

166-167). This approach makes the basic psychological assumption that emotional disorder results from a conflict or confusion of social beliefs or biological needs. In one sense, this statement is unexceptionable; but it is usually interpreted to mean that emotional trauma or tension is caused by one (or perhaps more) specific complex of irreconcilable desires, and then the search is on to discover this complex and "explain" its manifestations. In this way a direct connection is established between unavoidable mental concerns and particular cultural expressions: the individual mind must grasp and endure certain inherent conflicts—love of mother versus fear of authority, progress versus freedom—or else emotional disturbances will occur. Cultural forms such as myths help the individual to live with these conflicts. While this view is accurate as a description, it is mistaken as an explanation. Certainly, specific conflicts of beliefs and desires generate emotional disturbance, but the psychological connection between the disturbance and the conflicts is not as direct as this argument assumes. Freud is probably responsible for the popularity of this approach; as Philip Rieff comments, he encouraged it "by making the Oedipus Complex the nucleus of all neurotic problems." After him, for example, Adler rejected the centrality of the Oedipal desires but replaced them with an equally single-minded emphasis on the inherent conflict between inferiority and power. This methodological approach to attitudes and behavior—one central conflict, many behavioral manifestations—can be used both by psychoanalysts (e.g., Munden) and by more socially oriented interpreters of the Western to "explain" the meaning of the myth. But the problem

10

INTRODUCTION

is more complex than this. The trouble with this approach is that the basic conflict, whether psychological or social, is simply assumed to be the underlying motivation of the myth—or dream, or attitude—and then the myth or other manifestation is analyzed in such a way that, when the conflict is indeed found to be present, the interpretation is proven to be valid. Unfortunately, this method can be used to "validate" many such fundamental conflicts in the Western and in other aspects of cultural and psychic life. Many social scientists, including some psychoanalysts, have recently begun to interpret cultural forms and attitudes, as well as emotional disturbances, as problems in communication rather than as the consequences of specific and assumed tensions. The central concern of social man is seen to be the establishment of meanings and the communication of these meanings. This constitutes an assumption about basic human needs—the search for meaning—that is more formal and abstract than the Freudian or simple social assumptions that we have encountered—Oedipal conflicts, progress versus freedom, and so forth. It is also empirically demonstrable in a straightforward way, which these other assumptions are not: men do establish symbolic meanings and they do communicate. If we seek to understand myths from this perspective, we must first analyze the formal, or logical, requirements of symbolic communication and then try to relate the particular contents to those requirements. This is clearly different from attempting to connect the content with a specific complex of conflicting ideas or desires. While these specific conflicts are certainly present in human life, they are now interpreted as efforts to make symbolic sense of ordinary experience rather than as inherent human or social dilemmas. For example, if we successfully interpret a myth in terms of the Oedipus Complex, we have not "explained" the social meanings of the myth but have simply established that, in this society, there is a confusion in the social attitudes and actions surrounding parents and children, a confusion that must be expressed in the culture. In order to know why this confusion exists and how its expression is understood, we must understand what social meanings concerning this problem are available and how they conflict with the psychological and logical necessities of meaning and coherence in human consciousness. In other words, the theoretical relationship between specific social tensions and unconscious cultural expressions is no longer seen as direct and emotional but as indirect and cognitive. A specific, unresolved conflict in unconscious ideas or desires causes emotional disturbance or expression; but if this is accepted as an explanation of the expression, then the conflict becomes given and irreducible,

INTRODUCTION

11

and human experience is seen as innately emotional. When, however, this causal statement is accepted as a description of the relationship between a conflict and its emotional expression, both can be interpreted as attempts to establish meaning in a psychological context bounded by cultural concepts, on the one hand, and by the formal requirements of symbolic understanding on the other. This distinction underlies the recent stress on cognitive as opposed to affective psychology, where the concern is with how humans understand, organize, and communicate their experience rather than how they inherit, express, and resolve their emotional disorders. The perspective that I will adopt in this study is that emotional behavior can only be fully understood when cognitive behavior is understood. The study of human expression and communication requires a more formal psychological analysis than is available in psychoanalytic theory. The concerns of a cognitive explanation begin with the analysis of the structure of language and, more generally, the structure of symbolic communication. When this formal theory has been established, it is then possible to return to a specific social context where the theory can be applied to real experiences and expressions. The emphasis on the structural requirements of human consciousness permits an analysis of human action that focuses on a complex and formal psychological mechanism of communication as well as on a socially established and responsive complex of motivating symbols. It becomes possible to view myth as consisting of two analytically separable components: an abstract structure through which the human mind imposes a necessary order and a symbolic content through which the formal structure is applied to contingent, socially defined experience. With respect to its structure, myth is like language in that its elements are ordered according to formal rules of combination by which these elements take on meaning. The elements of myth are the images and actions of the narrative, and the structure that orders them, like the structure of language, is d e t e r m i n e d by the g e n e r a l p r o p e r t i e s of s y m b o l i c consciousness—that is, by the psychological resources of the mind and the laws of symbolic meaning. Thus, the structure of myth is assumed to be universal; it can be derived from an analysis of any instance of myth and the requirements of symbolic communication. But the formal structure of a myth is embodied in a symbolic content that is socially specific. This content presents characters and events, telling a story that society's members understand and enjoy. Both consciously and unconsciously the myth relates to the individual's experience as a social and historical being. Like lan-

12

INTRODUCTION

guage, myth exhibits an unconscious, formal structure through which its elements have meaning; whereas the elements of language—words—analyze human experience, the elements of myth synthesize experience. Words classify and separate, images and stories interrelate and unify. For this reason, myth—together with ritual, art, kinship, and politics—can be seen as a necessary symbolic strategy to reintegrate the experience that language makes detached and problematic. Through their stories and characters, and their unconscious, structural significance, myths organize and model experience. Familiar situations and conflicts are presented and resolved. Human experience is always social and cultural, and the models of experience offered by a myth therefore contain in their deepest meanings the classifications, interpretations, and inconsistencies that a particular society imposes on the individual's understanding of the world. The ordering concepts by which an individual acts will be reflected in the myths of his society, and it is through the formal structure of the myths that these concepts are symbolized and understood by the people who know and enjoy the myth. Thus, the study of myth can enable us to achieve a greater understanding both of the mind's resources for conceiving and acting in the world and of the organizing principles and conflicting assumptions with which a specific society attempts to order and cope with its experience. I have restricted myself to the study of films because I believe it is in this medium that the Western has taken on its uniquely mythical dimensions. Although Western novels reach a large and faithful audience, it is through the movies that the myth has become part of the cultural language by which America understands itself. First in theaters and now on television, Western films have found a far larger audience than Western novels, even those of Zane Grey. The central significance of the land is most truly expressed and felt in cinematic imagery: the vast deserts and empty skies of John Ford and the noble mountains and forests of Henry Hathaway and Anthony Mann establish absolutely the vital relation of the western setting to the stories and actions of the myth. Throughout history, myth and epic have been told with the aid of rhythm, ritual, song, and verse. Music adds depth and significance to a story, and in myth it makes the imaged meanings clearer and more immediately felt. The mythical significance of the Western is reinforced in film by music. Film is the only modern narrating medium in which everyday events and language are associated with music. (Try, for instance, to watch the crucial, non-dialogue scenes leading to the

INTRODUCTION

13

climatic fights in Shane or High Noon without sound, and see how much meaning is lost.) I have further restricted the study to include only certain films, choosing those that have been included in the industry list of the top money-makers of thg year, based on distribution receipts. In this way, I maximize the validity of my interpretation of these films as representatives of a popular social myth. Many Westerns are made, but not all of them are popular, and many are clearly rejected by the public. I assume that the successful Westerns correspond most exactly to the expectations of the audience, to the meanings the viewers demand from the myth. Other commentators on the Western have defined it from content or setting rather than acceptance and have tried to fit all instances of Western stories, popular or unpopular, into their analysis. This approach results in a far too general and all-inclusive interpretation of what is, in fact, a quite strict and specific structuring of elements. Some directors and writers intentionally distort the mythical meanings of the Western for their own artistic or dramatic interests, and their films are often quite interesting; however, the general public usually fails to respond to them enthusiastically. If such films are included in an analysis of the Western myth, few clear patterns will emerge. If they are excluded on the basis of a lack of public interest, then the films that are left—the popular, accepted ones—will reflect the understood, communicative structure of the Western myth. One consequence of this approach is that I can legitimately sidestep the argument that Westerns are not myths but commercial products made by professionals for the sake of profit. This argument, which is obviously true to this point, goes on to contend that American tastes and preferences are not reflected but molded in successful films by the powerful studio heads, directors, and movie stars. Successful movies, unlike successful tribal myths, are not determined by social acceptance but rather by the influence of big stars and big publicity. Thus, to understand the entertainment tastes of Americans, one must study not the films but the studio structure, the star system, and the social backgrounds and attitudes of the key men who shaped the movie industry. Certainly, many films have been successful only because of name stars and massive publicity. But within this well-known genre there have been many instances of films with star-studded casts and millions of publicity dollars that have been box office disasters. One such film was The Big Country (1958), a financial flop whose cast included Gregory Peck, Charlton Heston, Jean Simmons, Carol Baker, Burl Ives, Charles Bickford, and Chuck Conners. There was

14

INTRODUCTION

a Crooked Man (1968) was intended, according to the gossip columms, to save Twentieth Century-Fox from bankruptcy; there was excessive advertising and two of Hollywood's biggest names, Kirk Douglas and Henry Fonda, starred in it. Still, it was an overwhelming disaster. There are many other such Westerns, and most of them, like these two, are interesting because they change and distort the standard images that define the Western myth. In The Big Country, the hero is an eastern dude who hasn't shot a gun in ten years and doesn't in the film; ih addition, all the westerners in this film are mean or crude. There Was a Crooked Man is essentially the story of a prison break, which happens to be set in the West, and the hero is a cold-blooded killer. These plots fail to reinforce the mythical structure of the Western, and thus their financial failure lends support to the notion that successful Westerns are determined not solely by stars and advertising but, to a large degree, by the presence of the expected social symbolism. On the other hand, there are many examples of low-budget films, with few if any big stars, that become quite successful. An obvious recent example is the enourmously successful Billy Jack, which has no stars and was at first virtually unadvertised. Significantly, both its plot structure and setting are similar to those of the standard Western. Johnny Guitar is a Western that became a top money-maker in 1953 despite its low budget, "B" male lead (Sterling Hayden), and all but forgotten movie queen (Joan Crawford). The Dollar films—Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly—were just fill-in Italian Westerns until they caught on, became big money-makers, and made a superstar out of the virtually unknown Clint Eastwood. Since it seems that big stars and publicity are neither necessary nor sufficient to create successful Westerns, it is essential to look at the genre itself for a complete understanding of what makes for popularity. When we look at the genre itself and restrict our view to financial winners, we find that the results validate the effort. A clear pattern of change and development in the structure of the Western is apparent in the list of successful films of the last forty years. This pattern of change, which is difficult to recognize without the restriction of success, indicates that within a certain historical period only films with a specific structure were popular, regardless of stars or publicity. My argument, then, is that within each period the structure of the myth corresponds to the conceptual needs of social and self understanding required by the dominant social institutions of that period; the historical changes in the structure of the myth correspond to the changes in the structure of those dominant institutions.

INTRODUCTION

15

The first step in this argument will be to develop a cognitive theory of myth structure; with this theory, the structure of the Western can be formally analyzed with respect to how its social meanings are communicated by its symbolism. To develop the theory, I will turn to the work of Kenneth Burke on the social structure of literature, Claude Lévi-Strauss on the conceptual structure of tribal myths, and Vladimir Propp on the narrative structure of Russian folktales. Then, utilizing the theory, I will turn to the films and analyze the plots and meanings that predominate in each historical period. The first period—the classical plot—extends from 1930 to about 1955, when the Western revolves around a lone gunfighter hero who saves the town, or the farmers, from the gamblers, or the ranchers. The second period—the vengeance variation—overlaps the end of the classical period and continues until about I960, with later recurrences. This plot concerns an ill-used hero who can find no justice in society and threfore becomes a gunfighter seeking vengeance. The third period—the transition theme—which is more logical than temporal, includes three films in the early fifties; the story centers on a hero and a heroine who, while defending justice, are rejected by society. Finally, the last period—the professional plot—extends from 1958 to 1970 and involves a group of heroes who are professional fighters taking jobs for money. I will use selected films to exhibit the narrative and symbolic structure of these four plots; then I will extend the theory of myth in Chapter 4 to include an analysis of how the narrative structure of a myth provides a social and conceptual explanation to ordinary events. I can then use the theory and the formal analyses of structure to relate the structural meanings of each Western plot to the concepts and attitudes implicit in the structure of American institutions. To understand institutions and their impact on American values, I will draw upon the work of various economic and political theorists, including Karl Polayni, John Kenneth Galbraith, and Jurgen Habermas. In Chapter 5, I will show how the classical Western plot corresponds to the individualistic conception of society underlying a market economy. In Chapter 6, I will show how the vengeance plot is a variation that begins to reflect changes in the market economy; and in Chapter 7, I will argue that the professional plot reveals a new conception of society corresponding to the values and attitudes inherent in a planned, corporate economy. I will conclude my study with a brief overview and a final consideration of the significance of myth for an understanding of man and his society.

2 T lie Stri3.ct-u.re of IvLy-fh.

A myth is a communication from a society to its members: the social concepts and attitudes determined by the history and institutions of a society are communicated to its members through its myths. One of the tasks of this study is to examine this assertion. To do so, it is necessary to discover the meaning of a myth and to find out how a myth communicates its meaning. Like any communication, a myth must be heard (or viewed) and interpreted correctly; this means that myth must have a structure, like the grammar of language, that is used and understood automatically and through which meaning is communicated. In this chapter, I shall present a theory of the structure of myth and discuss how abstract social ideas are established in and communicated by this structure. My discussion will rely to a considerable extent on the structural studies of Claude Lévi-Strauss. In fact, the idea and inspiration for my study of the Western comes almost entirely from his work. His analysis of tribal myths is primarily responsible for current anthropological interest in cognitive and structural approaches to myth and ritual. Since I cannot agree completely with his ideas on myth, however, I will develop a somewhat different theoretical perspective. Essentially, I will be less concerned with structure and more concerned with order and communication. Lévi-Strauss demonstrates exhaustively the existence of a formal, conceptual structure in tribal myths for the purpose of proving that this structure is inherent in the human mind. A psychological argument is basic to all of his work—"ethnology is first of all psychology" (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 131)—and myth is only one of three cultural forms (the other 16

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

17

t w o are kinship a n d totemism) in w h i c h h e h a s a t t e m p t e d to d e m o n s t r a t e this m e n t a l s t r u c t u r e . He r e g a r d s m y t h as t h e best subject for study: T h e mind is an a u t o n o m o u s object, i n d e p e n d e n t of a n y subject. I believe that mythology, more than anything else, makes it possible to illustrate such objectified thought and to provide empirical proof of its reality. (Lévi-Strauss, 1969, pp. 10-11)

My interest, h o w e v e r , is not to r e v e a l a m e n t a l s t r u c t u r e but to s h o w h o w the m y t h s of a society, t h r o u g h their structure, c o m m u n i c a t e a c o n c e p t u a l o r d e r to t h e m e m b e r s of that society; that is, I w a n t to establish that a m y t h o r d e r s the e v e r y d a y e x p e r i e n c e s of its h e a r e r s (or viewers) a n d c o m m u n i c a t e s this o r d e r t h r o u g h a f o r m a l structure that is u n d e r s t o o d like language. T h u s , t h e r e is an i m p o r t a n t difference of e m p h a s i s b e t w e e n t h e c o n c e r n s of m y study a n d those of Lévi-Strauss. Lévi-Strauss w a n t s to discover the meaning of a myth in o r d e r to e x h i b i t its m e n t a l structure, w h i l e I w a n t to exhibit t h e s t r u c t u r e of a m y t h in o r d e r to discover its social meaning. Because Lévi-Strauss is i m m e r s e d in the relation b e t w e e n m y t h and the a u t o n o m o u s m i n d , he n e v e r a p p r o a c h e s m y t h as a c o n c e p tual r e s p o n s e to the r e q u i r e m e n t s of h u m a n action in a social situation. T o d o this, to relate m y t h to the o r d i n a r y responsibilities of people w h o act a n d must u n d e r s t a n d their actions, w e n e e d a theory that a t t e m p t s to e x p l a i n the i n t e r a c t i o n b e t w e e n symbolic structures a n d the possibility of h u m a n action. For such a theory, w e can t u r n briefly to t h e literary analysis of K e n n e t h Burke, w h o suggests that certain b a s i c a s p e c t s of h u m a n c o m m u n i c a t i o n are d e t e r m i n e d b y the use of s y m b o l s . Since m a n recognizes a n d e x p e r i e n c e s his w o r l d t h r o u g h t h e s y m b o l system of language, the things that m a k e u p his world—jaguars, men, trees, a n d so forth—take on symbolic properties. For man, these things are not just things but k i n d s of things; they h a v e names, a n d t h u s t h e w o r l d is s e p a r a t e d into things that are the s a m e (have t h e s a m e n a m e ) a n d things that are different (have d i f f e r e n t names). Language classifies the w o r l d ; it generalizes in c o n s c i o u s n e s s the things of e x p e r i e n c e . Man, as a s y m b o l - u s i n g animal, e x p e r i e n c e s a difference b e t w e e n this being and that being as a difference b e t w e e n this kind of being and that kind of being. . .. Here, implicit in our attitudes toward things, is a principle of classification. (Burke, p. 282)

This symbolic s e p a r a t i o n must be a c c o m p a n i e d by a s y m b o l i c ordering. T h e things of t h e w o r l d , especially other people, are e x p e r i e n c e d as n a t u r a l l y c o n n e c t e d b u t s y m b o l i c a l l y s e p a r a t e d . For

18

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

the purposes of social action and organization, this separation must be explained and bridged. According to Burke, communication between people about themselves and their world establishes the necessary reintegration of symbolic experience. In fact, the effort for communication can best be analyzed as a rhetorical appeal for symbolic identity and unification. But communication can fail, as is often apparent, and it is therefore necessary for every society to establish and continually reestablish a basis for communication. This basis, which underlies every successful communication, is the principle of order that organizes the symbolically separated beings and things of that society. T h e people and things in a social group must be conceptually arranged in a hierarchy of power, prestige, importance, and value, and this conceptual hierarchy, which may, as in America, be different from the actual hierarchy, makes communication and social action possible. By appealing to this principle of order—whether addressing a superior as "sir," writing American history, or simply laughing at a joke—an individual reinforces that order and locates himself in it; if the appeal is successful, and communication takes place, he has shown himself to be a recognizable and acceptable component of a symbolically classified and ordered world. As an example of this kind of analysis, here is an abbreviated version of Burke's discussion of Venus and Adonis, a poem ostensibly about goddesses and sexual conquest. And would not the Venus of Shakespeare's Venus a n d Adonis be better explainable in social terms than theologically? . . . Venus is not a "goddess" in any devout sense. She is a distinguished person compelled to demean herself by begging favors of an inferior. Viewing the poem from this standpoint, judging by its courtly style, and getting stray hints through its imagery, we would take the underlying proposition to be: goddess is to mortal as noblewoman is to commoner. The "divine" attributes here are but those of social preferment. . . . Venus would stand for the upper class, Adonis for the midde class, the boar for the lower classes. . . . The horses might represent the potent aspect of the middle class, though ambiguously noble. . . . The figure of the boar could, roundabout, identify the lower classes with the dregs, with moral evil. . . . But we would settle for much less. W e would merely contend that one should view this poem in terms of the hierarchic motive, or more specifically, in terms of the social order, as befits any inquiry into the rhetoric of courtship. W h e r e u p o n we should lay much stress upon the notable inversion w h e r e b y a superior is depicted begging favors of an inferior. . . . Here is signalized a New Order, in which not Venus but Adonis is celestial. T h e passive superiority he had possessed, in his indifference to her, here blazes into an act. His cult of acquisition (as huntsman) is raised to the very heavens. (Burke, pp. 215-217)

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

19

Here Burke interprets Venus, Adonis, the Boar, and the horses as symbols of social types. He interprets their interaction in the poem as a communicative appeal to the idea of a new social order, in which the new middle class replaces the aristocracy in the social hierarchy. Burke interprets the characters of a narrative as representing social types acting out a drama of social order. In this way, interaction—such as conflict or sexual attraction—is never simply interaction between individuals but always involves the social principles that the characters represent. Thus, a fight in a narrative would not simply be a conflict of men but a conflict of principles—good versus evil, rich versus poor, black versus white. This interpretation of narrative seems particularly appropriate to myths, and I will adopt it as a working hypothesis for my analysis of the Western. However, Burke's analysis is essentially literary, since he presents no systematic method for discovering the ideas of social classification and order inherent in narrative works. Adonis may represent the middle class; but how can we be sure, or even reasonably sure? Lévi-Strauss, on the other hand, utilizes a wellthought-out method of analysis and offers a remarkable amount of data to support the validity of his method. Therefore, an adroit merger of the theoretical insights of Burke with the methodological suggestions of Lévi-Strauss might provide an appropriate framework for an analysis of myth and social action. But this is not a simple undertaking, since the methodology of Lévi-Strauss is intertwined with his theory of the structure of the mind. I must therefore separate his method from his theory and justify its usefulness on other theoretical grounds, essentially claiming that Lévi-Strauss has the right approach but the wrong idea. His theory, as I have mentioned, is that the structure of myth reveals the structure of the mind. He attempts to establish this by assuming (borrowing from linguistics) what this structure is, then demonstrating that the conceptual meaning of tribal myths is expressed through this structure—the structure of binary oppositions. He claims that if myth exhibits the same binary structure as phonetics, this structure must be derived from the human mind. His effort to demonstrate the meaning of primitive myths naturally leads him to consider the social context of those myths, and in fact he argues meticulously that the myths of totemistic societies serve to resolve conceptual contradictions inherent in those societies. But his central psychological interest prevents him from considering with care how the myths of a particular society relate to its social actions or institutions. This relationship is my central interest. The difference in orientation means, specifically, that I am not as concerned as Lévi-Strauss with the origin of the structure of myth, but perhaps even more concerned with its meaning. In his Mythoio-

20

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

giques, Lévi-Strauss demonstrates the existence of binary structure in tribal myths. However, the only explanation he gives for the presence of this structure in myths is that the mind imposes it, an explanation I cannot accept since it implies that myths are not communications between society and individuals but instances of the mind communicating with itself. As Lévi-Strauss says, "Myths signify the mind that evolves them." In the following discussion, I will suggest an alternative explanation for why such a structure exists in myths. But first, I would like to give a brief account of Lévi-Strauss's idea of mythical thought. He begins, like Burke, with the notion of classification, finding in both primitive and scientific thought an intense effort to create conceptual order. In a society imbued with science, things are classified according to abstract, or primary, qualities—whales are warm blooded and breathe air, therefore they are like man. In primitive thought, however, things are classified according to sensible, or secondary, qualities—whales live in water, therefore they are like fish. Now, because primitive man classifies his world through sensible properties—color, sounds, smells, shape, species, and so forth—the things of the world are also used to explain his world; they become concepts in intellectual theories. In a dry climate, for example, water comes to stand for life in a theory about the meaning of life and death. This is different from the practice in scientific societies, where things are things and concepts are concepts: water is water, and the concept "life" represents life in any theoretical discussion. Lévi-Strauss argues that images of things become concepts by being structured into myths and that this synthetic, or secondary, process of conceptualization is only possible for primitive man, since scientific man creates scientific theories to order his analytic, or primary, concepts. The narrative theory suggested by Burke assumes that exactly the same process of conceptualization takes place in modern myth and literature. Images of things, especially people but also horses and boars, represent social types that are structured in such a way that they represent a theoretical idea of social order. There seems to be no reason why this should not be true. Modern society does have science, but it also has myths, and the things of sensible experience are far more important to most people even in our society than scientific abstractions. Lévi-Strauss's method is to look for the structure of myth in terms of binary oppositions. An image of something (a man, say) is structurally opposed in a myth to an image of something else (a jaguar, say). In this way the sensible differences between things (like man/not like man) become symbols of conceptual differences

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

21

(culture/nature). An image of a character (man) in a myth does not come to represent a concept (culture) because of any inherent properties of the image, but only because of the differences between it and the image or character (jaguar) it is opposed to. Moreover, every primitive society has a system of such oppositions, which give meaning to the images of important things in that society's existence. It is through this system of interrelated oppositions that the myths of a society are (unconsciously) understood by the members of the society. For example, a snake when opposed to an eagle might represent land; but when opposed to two sisters, as in a myth of the Murngin of Australia, it represents the rainy season. In the Murngin myth, a python comes out of a lake, flooding the land, and swallows two sisters and their children who have polluted the lake with menstrual blood. The snake represents the rainy season and the male, fertilizing element, while the sisters represent the dry season and the female, fertilized element. The two "must collaborate if there is to be life. As the myth explains: had the sisters not committed incest and polluted the waterhole, there would have been neither life nor death, neither copulation nor reproduction on the earth, and there would have been no cycle of seasons" (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 93). This binary analysis assumes that the meaning of a character in a myth is determined by an opposition motivated by the particular experiences of the society that produced the myth. The Murngin, for example, have two seasons—one of seven months, extremely dry, and one of five months with heavy rains and flooding. In his Mythologiques, Lévi-Strauss offers a staggering amount of evidence to validate a binary analysis of primitive myth. Not all anthropologists are fully convinced by his final interpretation of the myths, but most have incorporated his analytical insights into their own work. In my study of the Western, I have found that the idea of oppositional structure is useful for analysis and, as Lévi-Strauss argues, is seemingly inherent in the myth itself, not simply imposed as a convenient framework for interpretation. If this is true, and the meaning of a myth does derive from a formal structure of oppositions, where does this structure come from? It may not be necessary to answer this question, since the analysis must be able to stand on its own; but if it could be answered, the analysis would be more convincing, especially since Lévi-Strauss's answer is unconvincing. His answer, given with a transcendental flair, is that the structure is imposed by the mind; myth is the mind "imitating itself as object." Since this simply avoids the issue, it is interesting to note how Lévi-Strauss himself arrived at the idea of a binary structure. He borrowed the oppositional analysis from

22

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

an impressive linguistic breakthrough by Roman Jakobson, who argues that "the dichotomous scale . . . is inherent in the structure of language." But while Jakobson shows that the binary structure of distinctive features in phonetics helps make possible the use and acquisition of language, Lévi-Strauss is content to argue that the binary structure of myth permits myths to "signify the mind." There is a less metaphysical way to justify a binary analysis of myth, which depends only on the logic of symbolic meaning and follows the idea of Saussure that symbols are diacritical—"concepts are . . . defined . . . negatively by their relations with other terms of the system. Their most precise characteristic is in being what others are not" (Saussure, p. 17). The word "jaguar," for example, has meaning because it separates those things that are jaguars from those things that are not. Thus, every symbol divides the world into two sets, those things it does refer to and those things it does not. Distinguishing jaguars from everything else does not tell us much about jaguars, however. If we distinguished them from all other animals, or even from all wild animals, we would know a great deal more about jaguars; that is, the domain that a symbol divides influences the meaning of the symbol. Now suppose we are given two mutually exclusive sets, the even numbers and the odd numbers, for example. In mathematics, if we know or assume that these two sets comprise the entire domain of reference, we know a great deal about the two sets. We know that they are complements of each other, and we can prove many theorems about their relationship. On the other hand, if they are simply parts of a larger domain, we know very little about them, since we do not know from what context they were taken. This shows that if we are given a set, we know more about it if we know, or assume we know, its complement. The unique properties of the even numbers are different in the context of the whole numbers than in the context of the rational numbers (whole numbers and fractions); also, the unique properties of the even numbers are much more obvious if this set is contrasted with the set of odd numbers, or with the set of fractions, than if they are contrasted with both the odd numbers and the fractions. Similarly, when an image of a thing becomes a symbol, we know more about what it does mean if we know exactly what it does not mean. This is because the symbolic meaning created by an assumed dichotomy of images is determined only by the differences in the images; their similarities are irrelevant. When a man is contrasted to a jaguar in a myth, this can represent humanity as opposed to animality, culture as opposed to nature. The symbolism is derived from their differences. As things, they have many similari-

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

23

ties—alive, carnivorous, earth-bound—but these are unimportant in a binary structure of meaning. Clearly, if the jaguar were opposed to an eagle instead of a man, it would no longer represent nature but probably earth as opposed to sky, or perhaps even humanity as opposed to gods. The important point is that if a man, a jaguar, and an eagle were contrasted in a tertiary structure, the meaning of each image would be far less obvious and general. In this case, an understanding of the symbolism would require much more knowledge of the particular qualities of each character involved. Specifically, it would require the interpreter to recognize the similarities as well as the differences between the characters, since for an image to be a symbol its meaning must be unique. This means, of course, that when three or more characters are structurally opposed, their symbolic reference becomes more restricted and obscure because of the fine distinctions required; thus, their interpretation becomes more difficult. On the other hand, when two characters are opposed in a binary structure, their symbolic meaning is virtually forced to be both general and easily accessible because of the simplicity of the differences between them. This explains the prominence of binary structure in myths. In literary works by individual artists—such as novels or dramas—the desire is usually for complex, realistic characters in situations that challenge social attitudes. For this purpose, a binary structure is not appropriate. But myth depends on simple and recognizable meanings which reinforce rather than challenge social understanding. For this purpose, a structure of oppositions is necessary. The Western is structured this way, and, as we shall see, it presents a symbolically simple but remarkably deep conceptualization of American social beliefs. In contrast, for example, the Prince in Hamlet is opposed to Laertes and Fortinbras, men with similar problems but different solutions; this structure, which stresses the individuality of each character, complicates their interpretation as symbols. Of course, more than two characters can appear in a myth. But when three or more characters do appear, they appear as contrasting pairs, not as coequal representatives of alternative positions. In the classical Western, a typical cast would include a wandering gunfighter, a group of homesteaders, and a rancher. Instead of representing equally valid, conflicting life-styles, these characters would be presented as pairs of oppositions with each pair having a different meaning. The gunfighter is opposed to the homesteaders, a contrast representing individual independence versus social domesticity. The rancher, who is settled and domestic like the farmers, is opposed to them, but on another level or axis: the farmers represent progress

24

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

and communal values in opposition to the rancher's selfish, monetary values—a contrast between good and bad. In this way, the generality of the binary structure is maintained, while the possibility for rather complicated symbolic action is created. Each two characters are identified on one axis and contrasted on another; this structure permits interaction between social types and resolutions of conflicts between social principles but prohibits the more realistic and tragic situation of all three characters being equally good, equally domestic, and equally opposed. In this study, then, I will examine the basic oppositions of characters in the Western in order to make explicit the conceptual reference inherent in this structure. This analysis, however, will only tell us what the characters mean; it will not tell us what they do. The opposition of characters creates the conceptual image of social types; but to understand how myth presents a model of appropriate social action between these types, we must know what they do, how they act. This is the narrative dimension of the myth, or the story. According to Lévi-Strauss, the narrative (syntagmatic) aspect of the myth is to the binary (paradigmatic) aspect as melody is to harmony in music: the former provides the interest, the latter provides the depth. Lévi-Strauss also argues that the narrative contains only superficial, or apparent, content; the real, conceptual meaning of myth is established and communicated solely by the structure of oppositions. Accordingly, he devotes considerable analytic work to proving that hundreds of myths from many South American societies have essentially the same conceptual meaning, even though they have very different stories. His denial of significance to the story itself is simply untenable. It follows from a concern with mental structure rather than social action. If, however, myth is seen as a communication with people rather than a communication with itself, each particular myth must be interpreted as in some sense an allegory of social action. Now social action requires interaction, and interaction takes place in the story of a myth, not in the structure of oppositions. Thus, in order to fully understand the social meaning of a myth, it is necessary to analyze not only its binary structure but its narrative structure— the progression of events and the resolution of conflicts. The narrative structure tells us what the characters do, and unless we know what they do, we can never know what they mean to people who not only think but act. The analysis of narrative structure is somewhat more complicated than the analysis of oppositional structure, since narrative analysis involves such problems as temporal order, cause and effect, and explanation. My strategy will be to develop briefly a method for

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

25

the discovery and description of narrative structure in a set of myths. Then, after employing this method to analyze the four basic plots of the Western, I shall return in Chapter 4 to develop a theory of narrative and its structural relationship to social action. Finally, in Chapters 5, 6, and 7, I will apply this theory to the narrative structures derived f r o m the films, and in this w a y demonstrate h o w this particular myth—the Western—communicates to American society an idea of social types and actions inherent in the structure of its institutions. My method of narrative analysis will be to reduce the stories in a set of similar films to a single list of shared functions. These functions will be one-sentence statements that describe either a single action or a single attribute of a character. Thus, for example, the statement "The hero fights the villains" would be a function, while the statement "The hero fights and defeats the villains" would not be. Similarly, "The hero is u n k n o w n to the society" would be a function, but "The hero is u n k n o w n and a gunfighter" would not. The characters whose actions and attributes are described by these functions are generic, not specific—that is, the f u n c t i o n s do not refer to particular heroes, such as S h a n e or the Ringo Kid, but to the role of the hero as a character in all the stories. Also, the character referred to by the f u n c t i o n s need not be only one individual. The generalized character in a function can be, and often is, a group of characters in a film, all of w h o m share a single meaning in an opposition. Thus, a function will refer to "the villains" or "the society" as a single character with respect to structural action. This method of narrative analysis is a liberalized version of a method originated by Vladimir Propp for the analysis of Russian folktales. His tales w e r e m u c h simpler than the Western, and he restricted his functions to descriptions of actions, w h e r e a s I have included attributes; moreover, his tales w e r e folk, popularized and standardized by m a n y retellings, w h e r e a s my tales are films—stories based on a social myth, but created by specific individuals for popular acceptance and never changed or standardized by public retelling. From a study of folk tales, Propp showed that the functions that characterize a set of stories occur in a rigid, unchangeable order; in each tale every function—that is, every action—must appear in exactly the same sequence. But this a p p r o a c h is unnecessarily restricting, for it is easy to recognize a set of essentially similar stories with slightly differing orders of events. The order of the functions that characterize a Western plot will not always correspond exactly to the order of events in a particular film; in fact, some functions, such as "The hero fights the villains," may occur more than once in some films. In a sense, Propp is right: the temporal

26

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

order of actions in a narrative is of central importance for an understanding of the meaning of the narrative. But his solution to the problem of narrative order was too extreme, and in Chapter 4 I will show how a list of functions can be interpreted as ordered even if they do not always appear in exactly the same sequence in every story. If the stories in a set of films are reduced to a single list of common functions, will not the unique characteristics of each film—the particular actors, scripts, settings—be lost? Not necessarily, since these characteristics provide realism and flavor to the stories. They embody the myth and are necessary for the communication of meaning; but they are extraneous to the analysis of that meaning. The list of functions that describes a narrative structure must not be so general that it applies indiscriminately to a wide range of different stories; it must be sufficiently detailed to clearly include a certain set of similar stories and to clearly exclude all others. The test, of course, is to read (or watch) some stories from a group that have been analyzed as having the same structure to see if the details that are lost significantly change the meaning of the stories from that suggested by structural analysis. In the case of this study of the Western, at least, I believe that such a test will not only verify the analysis presented but provide enjoyment. It only remains to consider more exactly how these functions and oppositions interrelate. The oppositions reveal what the characters mean; the functions reveal what they do. As an example, suppose two characters, A and B, interact in Story 1 according to the following functions and coding (images representing concepts). Story l. A loves B. B ignores A. A seduces B. B leaves A. A dies.

upper class male female

middle class

B A

Now if A and B simply represented different sexes, this story would be a melodrama of love. But when A and B represent different classes, the story also becomes a drama of class differences and implies, perhaps, that it is proper to love and respect, but wrong to aspire to, the upper class. This is essentially the story, for example, of Lancelot and Elaine in Mallory's Le Morte D'Arthur (1469). Now suppose Story 1 is replaced by Story 2.

27

STRUCTURE OF MYTH Story 2. A loves B. B ignores A. A seduces B. B leaves A. B dies.

upper class

B

male female

middle class

A

Story 2 differs from Story 1 in only the last function, and it is concerned with exactly the same conceptual difference: upper class/middle class. But because of the narrative change and the change in coding, Story 2 tells of the attractiveness and independence of the middle class, the desire and impotence of the upper class, and the punishment of the middle class for its presumption. This story may indicate a changing social order as in Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis (1593). Finally, consider Story 3 with the same coding as Story 2. A hates B. B rapes A. B leaves A. A dies.

upper class male female

middle class

B A

This story tells of the nobility and purity of the middle class, and of its suffering at the hands of the evil upper class, a story that resembles, for example, Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1891). In all three stories the conceptualization of social types is the same; but in each case the narrative structure changes to portray a different model of interaction between these types, and these changes can be seen to correspond to changes in social institutions and attitudes. These examples, though overly simplified, illustrate the temporal as well as logical relationships between the functions and the oppositions to be found in the Western. The narrative structure varies in accordance with changing social actions and institutions. The oppositions, on the other hand, create images of social types that are fundamental in the consciousness of a society. These social types may change their mode of interaction, but as classifications of people the types themselves are much less likely to change. The concepts that define and differentiate people in a society are rooted in the beliefs and attitudes, and finally in the institutions, of that society; for them to change, the society itself must change to such a degree that it would essentially be a new society, which would consequently need a new myth. Thus, the concepts represented by

28

STRUCTURE OF MYTH

the oppositions in the Western should remain the same throughout our forty-year study, while the characters that symbolize these concepts may change their interaction as American society changes its institutions. And this is what we will observe: a history of four narrative stages, in which each stage presents its model of social action in terms of the same types of people.

3 Tlie Stru.ctu.re of tlie ISZesterzi Film

INTRODUCTION: THE FILMS

The Westerns with which this study is concerned are those that were among the top grossing films of the year they were released. The status of top grossing is awarded each year by Motion Picture Her aid to films whose rental receipts in the United States and Canada surpass $4,000,000. In the accompanying list, I have given all the Westerns that appear in this category since 1930. After most of them, I have indicated how they are classified in this study with respect to the four types of Westerns that will be discussed: the classical plot, the vengeance variation, the transition theme, and the professional plot. All together, there are 64 films, 24 of which I have labeled classical, 9 vengeance, 3 transition, 18 professional, and 1, Chisum, both classical and professional. In the following chapters, I shall analyze in some detail a few films from each of these categories. Some films, however, are exceptions to the classifications, and I would like to discuss these briefly. The Cowboys is in parentheses because the list of top grossers for 1972 has not yet appeared, though I am quite sure that this film will be on that list when it does. Also, Chi sum has been labeled both classical and professional because strong elements of both plots are present in it, making it an interesting special case, a film clearly built around the mythical image of John Wayne. Finally, the films preceded by a star (*) are films that I have not been able to see recently and therefore cannot classify, though if memory serves, Colt 45, Hondo, and Cheyenne 29

30

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

Autumn are probably classical while Gunfight at the OK Corral would be an early professional Western. I have labeled five films C* and P*. These designations are intended to mean that these films are self-conscious parodies of their respective plots. Of the C*, Along Came Jones is quite early and its plot reproduces the classical story exactly, except that the usual strong hero is an inept gunfighter. The other three classical parodies appear in the late 1960s and successfully satirize the classical plot at a time when the professional plot has almost entirely replaced it as the theme of serious Westerns. The one professional parody is probably mislabeled, but it seems to have the same relationship to the professional plot as Along Came Jones does to the classical plot; the Cheyenne Social Club presents two self-seeking but inept heroes bumbling their way through a situation typical of the professional story, so that the drama and the action remain serious, not put on, and the comedy derives from the unlikeliness and yet success of the heroes. Finally, there are four films that have no distinguishing labels and are mostly just embarrassing to my categories. The Charge at Feather River is an awful Western, which I refuse to consider since its commercial success was solely due to its big release as a three-dimensional film at a time when this gimmick was new and exciting. Fort Apache (1948) and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1950) are solidly in the classical period yet seem to be an early blending of both the classical and the professional plots. The fourth film, Little Big Man, is another parody, satirizing at times both the classical and the professional plots; more accurately, it is an anomaly, an elaborate mixture of standard mythical ingredients combined into a lengthy comic epic of Western legends. These then are the films that will comprise the data for this study. They are generally the best Westerns that Hollywood has produced, and many of Hollywood's finest directors are represented by them. Together, they exhibit both the substance and the history of a rich and vital social myth whose impact on American society cannot be doubted. TOP-GROSSING W E S T E R N S OF E A C H Y E A R SINCE 1 9 3 0

($4,000,000 or more rental in the U.S. and C a n a d a )

C T V P

-

Classical Plot Transition Theme Vengeance Variation Professional Plot

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

1931 1937 1938 1939

1940 1941 1945 1946 1947 1948 1949

1950

1952 1953

1954

1955

1956 1957 1959 1961

1962 1964 1965

1966

Cimarron - C The Plainsmen - C Wells Fargo - C Dodge City - C Stagecoach - V Union Pacific - C Destry Rides Again - C Northwest Mounted Police - C Along Came Jones - C* Canyon Passage - C San Antonio - C Duel in the Sun - C California - C Fort Apache Red River - V Whispering Smith - C Yellow Sky - C Broken Arrow - T *Colt 45 She Wore a Yellow Ribbon Winchester '73 - V Bend of the River - C High Noon - T The Charge at Feather River The Naked Spur - V Shane - C Apache - V *Hondo Johnny Guitar - T Saskatchewan - C The Far Country - C The Man From Laramie - V Vera Cruz - C The Searchers - V *Gunfight at the OK Corral Rio Bravo - P The Alamo - P North to Alaska - P One-Eyed Jacks - V The Commancheros - P Four for Texas - P How the West Was Won - C Cat Ballou - C* *Cheyenne Autumn Sons of Katie Elder - P Nevada Smith - V The Professionals - P

32

STRUCTURE O F T H E W E S T E R N FILM

1967

The War Wagon - P Texas Across the River - C* Hombre - C El Dorado - P 1968 Hang 'Em High - V The Good, the Bad, and the

Ugly - P 1969

The Wild Bunch - P True Grit - P Support Your Local Sheriff - C* 1970 Two Mules for Sister Sara - P Chisum - P & C Cheyenne Social Club - P* Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - P 1971 Big Jake - P Little Big Man Rio Lobo - P 1972 (The Cowboys) - P

THE CLASSICAL PLOT

The classical Western is the prototype of all Westerns, the one people think of when they say, "All Westerns are alike." It is the story of the lone stranger who rides into a troubled town and cleans it up, winning the respect of the townsfolk and the love of the schoolmarm. There are many variations on this theme, which saturate Western films from 1930 to 1955, from Cimarron and the saving of Oklahoma to Vera Cruz and the saving of Mexico. The classical plot defines the genre, and, as we shall see, the other plots—vengeance, transition, professional—are all built upon its symbolic foundation and depend upon this foundation for their meaning. For all its importance, however, the classical plot is not altogether easy to recognize. Neither, for that matter, are the other plots. Many films, from Stagecoach to Chi sum, contain aspects of more than one plot, and the variations within any one plot are often so broad that they seem to deny any possible similarity. As far as I can tell, no analyst of films or of Westerns has until now noticed the structural changes in the genre that have occurred since World War II. In fact, even after undertaking this study as an avid fan of Westerns since childhood, I was unsure of exactly where to look for structural similarities and differences. I restricted myself to top grossing films, but even this smaller group was large and varied enough to remain puzzling for the purpose of structural interpretation. Many dif-

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

33

ferences in content were apparent—railroad building, Indian wars, wagon trains, rancher barons—but the important differentiating factor proved to be the more abstract relationship between the hero and society. I found that, in the forty-year period from 1930 to 1970, there were four significantly different forms of this relationship, which seemed to change with time, particularly after the war. Concentrating on this relationship, it was not difficult to discover that each of the four forms appeared in a series of films that—for all their differences in content—had essentially the same plot structure. Furthermore, I found that the characterization of the heroes, society, and villains was essentially the same within any one plot structure, but was often quite different across the structures. After this, all that remained was to reveal, through investigation, the details of each plot structure and the conceptual meanings of the characterization within each. The evidence and the results of this investigation are what we shall now turn to, beginning in this chapter with an analysis of the classical plot. My strategy will be, first, to give plot summaries of some representative films and, then, to use these summaries to derive a set of functions that will characterize all of the films of that type. After determining the functions, I will return to the films to see how the conceptual, or oppositional, meanings of each of the relevant characters are established. In the case of the classical plot, one film stands out as a kind of archetype, exhibiting with remarkable purity all the basic components of the classical Western. This film is Shane, which was made in 1953 by George Stevens and remains to this day one of the most successful and popular Westerns ever made. Because of its unusual representativeness and because it is generally well remembered, I shall begin this chapter with a summary of its plot; afterwards, I shall summarize the selected films in the order of their date of production. But before I begin, I should say something about my method of selection. As the list indicates, there were at least eighteen classical Westerns released between 1931 and 1955. I have seen and studied most of these films, but to analyze them all here would be repetitive and boring to both the reader and myself. I cannot, however, simply claim that they are all essentially alike without some effort to examine supporting evidence. As a compromise, I have decided to select four or five films from each group—classical, vengeance, professional—for analysis and to concentrate on perhaps one or two. In this way, I hope to avoid repetition and at the same time, as it were, to demonstrate it. I have selected the films according to distribution over the period of time involved, differences in plot, and popularity; in this way, I hope to choose films that are repre-

34

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

sentative, remembered well by the public, and as varied as possible within any single type. This method, I believe, will satisfy the demands of evidence and of readability. Furthermore, it will enable the reader, if he is still doubtful, to watch his television guide for a replay of one of the other films so that he can make his own investigation as a test of my analysis. Shane Shane is the classic of the classic Westerns. It was directed by George Stevens from a screenplay by A. B. Guthrie, Jr., based on the novel by Jack Schaefer. It was filmed in the Jackson Hole Valley, which is framed by the magnificent Grand Teton Mountains. In this film, Alan Ladd stars as Shane, Van Heflin as Starrett, Jean Arthur as Marion, Brandon de Wilde as Joey, and Jack Palance as Jack Wilson. The story begins with Shane riding out of the mountains into a beautiful valley. He asks for water at the farm of Joe and Marion Starret, who are friendly at first but then hostile, telling Shane to leave at gunpoint, as the Rikers ride up. Shane leaves and the Rikers arrive to tell Starret to get off the land or be driven off. They have a ranch, and they need all the land for cattle. Starret is indignant but unnerved, when Shane suddenly reappears and announces to the Rikers that he is a friend of Joe Starret's. He is wearing a gun, and now the Riker brothers and their men are confused. After a final warning, they leave. Shane is invited for dinner, and after becoming friendly with the family, he is given a job on the farm. The next day, Shane rides into the small town for supplies, is insulted in the saloon by one of Riker's cowboys, and backs down, avoiding a fight. That night, the seven or eight farmers in the valley gather at Starret's to plan strategy against Riker. Shane is introduced, but one of the farmers accuses him of cowardice and Shane leaves the meeting. Sunday, all the farmers go to town together for strength, and Shane intentionally enters the saloon. He is insulted again, but this time he fights and defeats a cowboy named Chris. Riker offers him a job, he refuses, and all the cowboys in the saloon attack him. Starret comes to his aid, and together they defeat the cowboys. Riker, in anger, sends for a gunfighter. The gunfighter Wilson arrives in town, and Shane recognizes him as a fast draw. Riker once more tries to buy out Starret, but the farmer refuses. The next day, Wilson forces one of the farmers into a gunfight and kills him. The following day, Riker burns one of the farms. At this point, the farmers are ready to leave the valley in defeat, but Starret convinces them to stay one more day. He

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

35

decides to go to town and kill Riker, and Riker sends for him to talk. Marion, Starret's wife, pleads with him not to go and asks Shane to persuade him not to, but Shane refuses to interfere and goes to the barn. In the barn Chris, w h o has had a change of sympathy, tells Shane that Starret is heading into a trap. Shane puts on his gun, tells Starret he is going to town, and advises the farmer to stay home. W h e n Starret refuses, they fight and Shane knocks him out. After saying goodbye to Marion, for w h o m he has a romantic attraction, which she shares, Shane rides to town. There, in the saloon, he beats Wilson to the draw and kills him. Then he kills the two Riker brothers. Wounded, he rides out of the valley forever, into the dark mountains, while little Joey Starret shouts after him to "come back."

Dodge City Dodge City, the earliest of the films I shall discuss, was released in 1939, directed by Michael Curtiz, and starred Errol Flynn as W a d e Hatton and Olivia de Havilland as A b b e y Irving. It was the first, and perhaps the most popular, of the series of Westerns that Errol Flynn made for Warner Bros. The opening scenes tell of the founding of Dodge City with the coming of the new railroad. Colonel Dodge and other eastern businessmen celebrate W a d e Hatton, who more than any other man is responsibly for the successful railroad and thus for the town. Hatton, former rail foreman, decides to go to Texas with his friends Rusty and T e x for a herd of cattle to bring to Dodge City. While he is gone, the town grows and Jeff Surrett moves in. He owns the saloon and tries to drive out all the other cattle-buyers. He murders Matt Cole, a farmer, and his men run the sheriff out of town. The good people of Dodge City despair. Leading a cattle drive, Hatton also brings some new settlers to Dodge City, including A b b e y Irving and her brother. The brother is wild, drunk, and Hatton has to kill him in self-defense. Afterward, A b b e y hates Hatton. In town, the new townspeople do not know Hatton; but when he stands up to Surrett at the cattle auction, he stirs their curiosity and admiration. He agrees to sell his cattle to Jack Ort, but Surrett has Ort murdered so that Hatton will have to sell to him. Meanwhile, Hatton's cowboys and Surrett's men have a grand fight in the saloon. (This is the granddaddy of all saloon brawls, with dozens of men literally tearing the place apart.) The cowboys win and ride out of town, but Rusty, still in the saloon, is taken into the street by Surrett and his men to be hanged. By

36

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

capturing Surrett, Hatton saves Rusty single-handedly, and then, finding there is no sheriff, he lets Surrett go. The good citizens have a meeting and ask Hatton to be sheriff, but he declines, saying it is not his concern. At this point, Abbey, whom Hatton likes, castigates him. Dejected, Hatton prepares to leave town, but in the street a gunfight takes place in which Abbey is threatened and a child who is a friend of Hatton's is killed. In anger, Hatton finally decides to stop the killing and takes the job of sheriff. He bans guns and gambling and closes down the saloons. He also finds time to court Abbey and win her love. These two and the newspaper editor find proof that Surrett killed Matt Cole. The editor is killed, but Hatton gets Yancey, Surrett's chief henchman, to confess. To prevent a lynching, Hatton takes Yancey away on the train. Surrett tries to rescue Yancey, but both he and Yancey are killed and his gang is captured. In the end, Hatton and Abbey are married, yet they leave Dodge City, which now has a church and a choir, when Colonel Dodge offers Hatton the job of cleaning up Virginia City, a wild town "worse than Dodge ever was." Canyon Passage Canyon Passage was released in 1946, directed by Jacques Tourneur, and starred Dana Andrews as Logan Stewart and Susan Hayward as Lucy Obermeyer. It is an unusual Western in that it does not concern the plains, cattle, or gunfighers, but is the story of a farming settlement in Oregon. Logan Stewart, the owner of Stewart Freight Lines, arrives in Portland to deposit some gold. He meets Lucy Obermeyer, his friend's fiancé, and agrees to ride back to Jacksonville with her the next morning. That night, a man who resembles Honey Bragg, a vicious bully from Jacksonville, breaks into Logan's hotel room to steal the money. Logan fights him off but is not certain it was Bragg. On the way to Jacksonville, Logan and Lucy stop at the farm of the Danses so that Logan can see his fiancée Caroline, who lives there. When they get to town, Logan takes Lucy to her home where her fiancé George is waiting. A week later, the entire town is at a cabin-raising for a newly wedded couple. It is an idyllic scene, full of community spirit. We learn that George is lazy and dreams of getting rich quick. Also, we learn that Caroline wants to settle down but Logan likes to wander around. The Indians show up, creating tension, but there is no trouble. The next day Bragg returns to town and challenges Logan to a fight. Logan refuses, but egged on by the townspeople, he fights

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

37

and defeats Bragg, who is a much bigger and stronger man. Later, he pays George's gambling debts and tells him to stop gambling. George does not, incurs more debts, and kills a man for his gold. Logan, meanwhile, prepares to go to San Francisco for a loan. Lucy decides to ride with him to get a wedding dress. A s he leaves, Logan tells the town gambler to return George's money or else. The gambler tells Bragg of Logan's trip, and Bragg attacks him and Lucy in the woods, killing their horses. Bragg runs off, and Logan and Lucy return to town, all the time resisting a romantic attraction. In town the murder has been discovered, and George is tried and convicted in a kangaroo court. Before the hanging, word comes that Bragg has raped and killed an Indian maiden and, in retaliation, the Indians have risen against the settlements. In the confusion, Logan helps George to escape "for Lucy's sake." Then he organizes and leads the town against the Indians. In the uprising George and Bragg are killed and Caroline is rescued, not by Logan, but by Vaine, a young aspiring farmer who loves her. Afterward, Caroline decides to marry Vaine and settle down. Logan returns to Jacksonville to find his business destroyed, himself broke, and a town that had planned to hang him for helping George. He decides to go to San Francisco for some credit, and the next morning he rides off south with Lucy. Duel in the Sun Duel in the Sun w a s released in 1947, directed by King Vidor, and starred Gregory Peck as Lewt McCanlis, Jennifer Jones as Pearl Chavez, and Joseph Cotten as Jesse McCanlis. It is remarkable for at least two reasons: first, because of its preoccupation with sex—it w a s billed as the movie that brought sex to the Western—and second, because of its success. A s of 1971, it w a s the fourth most financially successful Western ever m a d e in terms of dollars earned; and the only three to surpass it, Butch C a s s i d y , How the West was Won, and True Grit, were made in the sixties, when there w a s inflation, higher prices, more theaters and foreign distribution. Moreover, of the forty Westerns listed in Variety's 1971 list of the most successful films, only nine were from the fifties, three from the forties, and none were made prior to 1946. A s of 1971, Duel in the Sun grossed $11,000,000, compared to $9,000,000 for S h a n e and $26,000,000 for Butch Cass idy. Pearl Chavez is the daughter of an American father and an Indian mother. Just before he is hung for killing his wife and her lover, the father sends Pearl to stay with his sister in T e x a s . In T e x a s ,

38

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

Pearl is met by Jesse McCanlis and taken to the large and powerful McCanlis ranch, home of the crippled Senator McCanlis, his wife Laura Bell, and their s.ons Jesse and Lewt. At the ranch, Laura Bell welcomes Pearl sincerely, but the senator insults her race; Jesse is gentlemanly and interested, and Lewt is leering and suggestive. In the family, Jesse opposes the senator's hostility and rough treatment of the settlers; he wants the ranch to help develop Texas. Laura Bell likes and supports Jesse, but she is meek and will not stand up to her husband, who is strong, loud, and arrogant with his land and power. Lewt is wild, reckless, without principles, and he is encouraged by the senator; he makes insolent advances to Pearl, who wants to be a good girl but does not feel she belongs. One day, while Lewt is away, word comes to the ranch that the railroad, which will bring settlers and civilization, is about to cut the McCanlis fence and start building track on the ranch under a court order. The senator, Jesse, and hundreds of cowboys ride to the fence to stop them. The senator tells the railroad man he will slaughter the coolies if they cut the fence. Jesse, recognizing the law, changes sides and starts to cut the fence himself telling the senator to shoot him, if he must. Just then, the cavalry rides up and the senator backs down, refusing to fire on the flag; but he denounces Jesse and bans him from the ranch. Lewt, meanwhile, returns to the ranch and seduces Pearl by firing up her passion with his caresses. Jesse, while packing, discovers them together. Ashamed, Pearl asks him to forgive her, and he tells her in a kind way that he loves her but cannot forget. After he leaves, Pearl, feeling rejected, accepts her fate and returns to Lewt and lust. After a while Lewt agrees to marry Pearl but then refuses, so she becomes engaged to Sam Pierce, the foreman. In a gunfight, Lewt kills Pierce and becomes an outlaw who blows up trains to help the senator. He returns to the ranch at night to force his attentions upon Pearl, and she accepts them passionately. Laura Bell dies, after which Jesse returns briefly to the ranch. He is now an eminent lawyer in Austin and engaged to the daughter of the railroad owner. He asks Pearl to come to the city to live with them, and she accepts; but Lewt returns and coldly shoots the unarmed Jesse in the street. Though badly wounded, Jesse will live, yet Pearl learns that Lewt intends to finish him later. Lewt asks her to meet him, and she goes; but when she arrives, she shoots him in order to protect Jesse. Lewt in turn shoots her, and they die in the rocks in each other's arms.

The Far Country The Far Country, released in 1954, is the fourth in a series of

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

39

five Westerns directed in the early fifties by Anthony Mann. All are unusually good Westerns, which are on our list of successful films; Bend of the River is in the classical group and Winchester '73, The Naked Spur, and The Man from Laramie in the vengeance variation. The Far Country stars James Stewart as Jeff Webster, Walter Brennan as Ben Tatum, and Corinne Calvet as Renée. Jeff Webster arrives in Seattle with a herd of cattle, which he and his older partner, Ben Tatum, intend to ship to Alaska and sell to the miners. At the boat, he returns their guns to his two disgruntled cowhands and challenges them to draw on him. They hesitate and refuse, but accuse him of killing two other cowhands, men whom he says tried to steal the cattle. As the boat is pulling out, the two men return with the sheriff and tell the captain to hold Jeff prisoner. Jeff runs and is hidden by Rhonda Castile, a lady gambler who is going to Alaska. In Skagway, Jeff and Ben get the cattle off the boat but run afoul of Mr. Gannon, the self-appointed judge and law in the town. He impounds (steals) the cattle, and Jeff, now broke, decides to accept Rhonda's offer to be trail boss when she takes her gambling equipment over the mountains to Dawson. Meanwhile, Jeff meets Renée, a young French girl attracted to him who is a friend of Rube, a man from Dawson who has attached himself to Jeff and Ben. With Rhonda, Ben, Rube, the crew, and the equipment, Jeff leaves for Dawson, but he camps early and returns at night with Ben and Rube to take his cattle from Gannon. In the process Renée follows him, as does Gannon and his men a few minutes later. Jeff, Renée, and the cattle make it to safety across the Canadian border; but Gannon promises to hang Jeff when he comes back to Skagway, which, he points out, is the only way out of Dawson. On the trail Jeff decides to take the longer way through the valley rather than over the mountain, thus provoking the wrath of Rhonda and her men. With his gun he prevails, and they separate, with Jeff, Ben, Rube, Renée, and the cattle going through the valley. Later, an avalanche sweeps down on the people on the mountain trail, and Renée, Ben, and Rube want to go back and help. Jeff refuses, saying he only takes care of himself; but he gives in when they tell him he's wrong and go back without him. Afterward, they all take the trail—Rhonda included—and just before Dawson they see some miners attacked and killed by robbers. With deadly long-distance shooting, Jeff kills one of the robbers, not because he killed the miners but "because he shot at me." In Dawson, Rhonda and her men—joined later by Gannon and his men—bring gambling, violence, and murder to what was a peaceful community of people planning to build homes, churches, and schools. Jeff and Ben buy a claim and do some mining, and

40

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

while Ben and Renée join with Rube and the good people, Jeff stays aloof. As the only man good with a gun, he is asked to be sheriff, but he refuses, so Rube becomes sheriff. After Gannon comes to Dawson, Jeff secretly plans to leave with Ben and their gold by the river; but he is ambushed and shot, Ben is killed, and the gold is stolen. Rhonda and Renée nurse him back to health while Gannon continues to kill, rob, and humiliate the miners. Jeff still refuses to help, but just as the miners are ready to give up and abandon the town, he changes his mind and goes gunning for Gannon. After Jeff kills three of his gunmen, Gannon sneaks up on him; Rhonda runs out to save him and is killed by Gannon. Then Jeff kills Gannon, and the townspeople run the rest of his men out of town. Finally, Renée takes the wounded Jeff home to patch him up again. I will now attempt to extract from these stories a list of functions that describe common actions and situations. This list will characterize these five films as well as the other classical Westerns on the list. Not all the functions will apply to all the films; most of them will, but a few, as we will see, may be optional. More importantly, the functions need not occur in the stories in exactly the order in which I will list them. Some occur more than once in certain films and in different places in the narrative; however, these are problems that will be easier to discuss as we proceed. First, it should be easy to state simply what the basic similarities are while introducing the main characters. Each film is the story of a hero who is somehow estranged from his society but on whose ability rests the fate of that society. The villains threaten the society until the hero acts to protect and save it. Thus, for analysis, we can reduce each story to three sets of characters: the hero, the society, and the villains. This is possible because each of the latter groups is undifferentiated—that is, the members of society always share common interests and have no internal conflicts, and the villains always share common interests and have no internal conflicts, except over money. Each group of characters, then, acts essentially as one with respect to the other group or the hero, and therefore we need only consider these three basic characters for a general description of the action. In each film the story opens with the hero coming into a social group, a fledgling society consisting of families and elderly people with a settled, domestic life. In Shane, the hero rides into the valley and meets the farmers—specifically Starret, his wife and son; in Dodge City, Hatton returns to the town as it is attracting settlers and becoming a community; Logan returns to Jacksonville from Portland in Canyon Passage; and Jeff takes his cattle to the new

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

41

mining settlement of Dawson in The Far Country. Duel in the Sun also fits this pattern, but in a rather unique way. There is no town or settlement such as Dodge City or Dawson, but we have instead the McCanlis ranch and family—particularly Laura Bell and Jesse— which represents on a small scale the same community values. More interesting is the fact that, instead of a gunfighting hero coming to the ranch, we have Pearl, a scared, confused, half-Indian girl. In fact, Pearl is the hero; for, if we substitute her for the standard male hero and make one more transformation, we will find that Duel in the Sun corresponds exactly to the basic meanings of the typical plot. The other transformation will be discussed in a moment, but for npw, taking Pearl as the hero, we can see that this film also begins with the hero entering a social group. Thus, our first function can be: 1. The hero enters a social group. In each film but Canyon Passage, the hero is a stranger to this society. Shane is so much a stranger that he has no last name and no past. Although Hatton helped to found Dodge City, he is not known by the new citizens. Pearl, though a relative, is much older than Laura Bell expects and is not recognized by Jesse when she arrives in town; Jeff, like Shane, is a total stranger in his new town, Dawson. Only Logan, who is a businessman in Jacksonville, is known to his community when the film begins, though there is some indication that he is not known very well by some of the townspeople; even his fiancee seems surprised to learn that he does not want to be a farmer. But it is more appropriate, I believe, to admit that function 2 does not apply to Canyon Passage: 2. The hero is unknown to the society. In three of the five films, the town discovers that the new arrival is a skilled gunfighter. Shane gives himself away when he twice reaches suddenly for his gun in reaction to unexpected noises after he arrives at the peaceful Starrett farm. Later, in a scene that is not mentioned in my summary, he demonstrates his fast draw and accuracy while giving Joey, Starrett's son, a shooting lesson. Finally, he proves his ability in the climactic gunfight. We first learn of Hatton's shooting and fighting skill from Colonel Dodge, who tells his friends that Wade is the man most responsible for the train getting to Dodge, meaning that he successfully fought the Indians and thieves and supplied the buffalo meat. Later, one of his friends tells us that Hatton was a soldier in India, a cowboy in Texas, a Cuban revolutionary, and a Southern soldier in the Civil War. Along with the townspeople, we witness his ability when he kills a crazy

42

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

gunman on the cattle drive and particularly when he successfully stands up to Surrett and dozens of men in order to rescue Rusty. Jeff Webster shows his shooting skill when he challenges two men to draw and they back down; he takes back his cattle and holds off Gannon and his men in a gunfight until the cattle are safe; as Rube says, "He knocked a man plumb out of the saddle at better'n 200 yards." Finally, alone he outshoots Gannon and three gunfighters in the streets of Dawson. Logan, in Canyon Passage, is a businessman, not a gunfighter, though he shows he can shoot when he scares off Bragg after he and Lucy are ambushed and when he fights the Indians; and he demonstrates his own special strength when he beats up Bragg in the town. Bragg (Ward Bond) is much bigger than Logan (Dana Andrews) and, according to the townspeople, he can break a two-by-four with his hands. "It's going to be a slaughter," they say, "nobody can beat Bragg." But Logan does, handily, thus proving his own exceptional ability. But what about Pearl? She doesn't beat up anybody, though she does prove to be a very good rifle shot. Her remarkable ability is not demonstrated in fighting but in sex. Where the other heroes have physical or shooting strength, she has sexual strength. This is the other transformation that clarifies the structure of Duel in the Sun, the transformation of the fast draw into the fast lay, of power into passion. The film is about sex, as other Westerns are about violence; every technique used in the film, the sensuous acting, the rich makeup, the vivid, artificial colors—dark reds, yellows, oranges, and blacks—along with the pounding music, symbolic lightning storms, writhing close-ups, and Pearl's caressing of Lewt's gun, all emphasize the significance of sex and Pearl's uncontrollable desire for it. It is her special skill; for though Lewt is an experienced Lothario, try as he may, he cannot resist Pearl and will risk his life to see her. If one had a Freudian orientation, one might speculate on the appropriateness of a symbolic transformation that turns a man's hot, fast-shooting, never-empty gun into a woman's lustful body. It would probably be more revealing to speculate on the sexism and racism inherent in the imagery of Pearl, for she is half Indian, dark-skinned, and her last name is Chavez; however, for my purposes it is sufficient that she, too, satisfies function 3: 3. T h e hero is revealed

to have an exceptional

ability.

As a consequence of this ability, the society recognizes the hero as a special and different kind of person. Shane, after revealing himself as a gunfighter, is first suspected by Starrett; then, after he confronts Riker, he is respected by Starrett, admired by Marion, and worshipped by Joey. He is thought to be different by the other

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

43

farmers—some suspect him of being a gunfighter—because he is the only man in the entire valley without an understandable reason for being there. He is not a farmer, but he is farming. He does not want land, and he r e f u s e s an offer from Riker for much better money. Thus, he is an enigma, who is given a special standing in the community. Similarly, Hatton in Dodge City and Jeff in The Far Country are recognized as different kinds of men. Both impress the people by their ability; both are offered the j o b of sheriff and, tacitly, the role of leader. Logan, too, is different from his neighbors in the settlement; this difference is stressed in the dialogue of C a n y o n Passage more than in most Westerns, probably b e c a u s e this hero is not a stranger in the town. He is repeatedly referred to as footloose, careless and decidedly undomestic. Mrs. Danse calls him a "moving-about m a n , " Lucy describes him as "restless and discontented," George as a "roughneck" with "no polish at all." When Caroline accuses him of always risking money, he replies that he has little interest in money. He seems to be the leader in town, not b e c a u s e he wants to be or even shows any interest in it, but simply b e c a u s e of his strength of character. When Bragg c o m e s to town, everyone from the miners to his accountant to Lucy a s s u m e s that Logan will and should fight him. When Logan hesitates, not wanting to fight, Hy (Hogy Carmichael)—the local troubador and something of a chorus to the drama—tells him, "You might as well go. The town won't have it any other w a y . " Finally, Pearl is recognized as different from other people because of her Latin heritage, her dark skin, and her beauty. A s soon as she arrives at the ranch, she is treated by Lewt and the senator as a slut, and she has to reassure L a u r a Bell and Jesse that she is a "good girl." Every time she is a w a y from the house, she is suspected by Laura Bell of misdeeds, and she is taken to a preacher to drive a w a y the devil, Temptation. Jesse, the ranch hands, and everybody else perceive her as a sexually possessed w o m a n , and consequently she is given special treatment on the ranch: 4. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero; the hero is given a special status. Another consequence of the hero's ability—or, to be exact, of the recognition of that ability by society—is that society does not fully accept the hero. S h a n e is immediately distrusted by Starrett, and then later, when he tries to avoid a fight, he is a c c u s e d of being a coward by the farmers. When he tries to rehabilitate himself by picking a fight, the farmers are upset by the fight and try to ignore it, mumbling "This is bad, this is b a d . " Even Marion, after Joey's

44

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

shooting lesson and Shane's attempt to explain to her that a gun is just like any other tool, tells him, "This valley would be better off if there were no more guns left in it, including yours." This means Shane himself, so, as his expression tells us, he is chastened and ashamed. Joey, who is Shane's strongest defender, turns on him and exclaims, "I hate you," when Shane uses his gun to knock out the boy's father. Perhaps the strongest indication in any classical Western of the society's nonacceptance of the hero comes when Shane and Starrett fight, a scene that emerges as more than simply a struggle between men. The fight takes place in the farmyard, and it seems as though the world is ending. Marion screams, dogs cower and hide, horses scream and buck, and cows run and jump at a wooden fence, crashing through it in fear. These sounds along with the sounds of the blows in the fight are magnified so that the fight seems to become an earth-shaking, heaven-rending duel of the gods. Interestingly, in what was surely a conscious decision that must affect the viewer, no blood is seen in this fight. Neither man is bloody or seriously cut, though in other respects Shane is an unusually realistic Western; in the prior saloon fight, which seems like a minor battle in comparison, there was quite a bit of blood and both men required extensive treatment afterward. In Dodge City Hatton is publicly denounced by the woman he loves for being a gunfighter, and in The Far Country the people of Dawson decide that Jeff does not like them and so they will not like him. Pearl is insulted by the senator, suspected by Laura Bell, and driven back to Lewt by Jesse when he cannot overlook her seduction (read gunfighting). Logan is accepted as a businessman, but even so, he goes his own way and is therefore rejected by his fiancée and the town. Caroline cannot accept him because he is restless and reckless, and the town wants to hang him because he helped his friend, a murderer, to escape: 5. The society does not completely accept the hero. In each film there is a conflict between society and the villains, thé good guys and the bad guys. In Shane, Riker wants the land for cattle and the farmers want it for farms. In Dodge City, Surrett plots to monopolize the cattle business and rob all the citizens, who want to have a peaceful, respectable town. The people of Dawson want to work their claims and build a town, while Mr. Gannon would rather drive them away and take over their gold and their claims. Jesse, Laura Bell, and Sam Pierce want to help Pearl, and Jesse and the railroad men want to open up the West to settlers and towns; but Lewt wants to exploit Pearl and kill anyone who helps her, while the senator wants to close off the west, drive

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

45

out the settlers, and slaughter the railroad workers. In Canyon Passage, the peaceful settlers desire only to farm and mine the land, while Bragg seeks to dominate the town, kill Logan, steal gold, and rape Indians who simply want to be left alone: 6. There is a conflict of interests between the villains and the society. In this conflict the villains always prove themselves to be far more capable of winning. Riker is an old Indian-fighter, his men are cowboys, and Wilson, his hired gun, is a professional killer. Their opponents, the farmers, are middle-aged men and women who are unfamiliar with guns and afraid of violence; and the same general description applies to both Dodge City and The Far Country. In both cases, there is a strong villain aided by a special gunfighter and many gunmen against a town full of old, fat, fearful men and some women. Sam Pierce of Duel in the Sun is unarmed when Lewt shoots him, and Jesse, not only unarmed, is a lawyer and a gentleman who has never carried a gun. Bragg is a vicious bully and no one in town, except maybe Logan, can possibly stand up to him: 7. The villains are stronger than the society; the society is weak. Function 8 is another one that appears in only some Westerns and in two of our five. It states that the hero and the villain have a strong friendship or mutual respect. Gannon and Jeff drink together, exchange wise cracks, and Gannon at least tells Jeff that he likes him. But this is a weak instance of the function compared to many other films in which the hero and the villain are very good friends, such as Cimarron, Union Pacific, Whispering Smith, Bend of the River, and Vera Cruz. In Canyon Passage, Logan and George are good friends; but this does not really qualify as an instance of function 8 since George is not a villain in the classical sense. In fact, his character—part of society, not really dangerous, but a murderer—is probably the most atypical structural feature of all five Westerns I have selected. Of course, the ultimate expression of a friendship between a hero and a villain, and perhaps the most satisfying one, is the passionate friendship between Lewt and Pearl. This "friendship" suggests some of the structural rewards of transforming male violence into female lust in the Western myth, and perhaps reveals some unconscious symbolism in the more standard Western: 8. There is a strong friendship or respect between the hero and a villain. Because the villains are stronger, they endanger the existence of

46

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

society. Riker kills one farmer, drives another off, and almost succeeds in forcing all of them out of the valley; Surrett runs the sheriff out of town, murders the citizens, and scares off the new settlers; similarly, Mr. Gannon openly robs and kills the miners of Dawson, until they are forced to pack up and leave their homes. Lewt seduces Pearl, kills Sam Pierce, blows up trains, and coldly shoots down Jesse, the lawyer who is a friend of the settlers. Bragg wants to dominate and control Jacksonville: 9. The villains threaten the society. Functions 10 and 11 are, again, like 2 and 8, optional. They state that the hero tries to stay out of the fight between the villains and society and only decides to join in when a friend of his is endangered. This occurs in each of our five Westerns except Canyon Passage, where Logan fights for the town without special inducement. Shane does not fight for Starrett, or even put on his guns, until Chris warns him of a trap; Hatton refuses to be sheriff until a child whom he likes is killed; Pearl protects Lewt until he shoots and then threatens to kill Jesse; and Jeff, even more than Hatton, refuses to care about the miners' plight until his friend Ben has been killed, his friend Rube has been humiliated and pistol-whipped, and his friend Renée has had her claim stolen: 10. The hero avoids involvement in the conflict. 11. The villains endanger a friend of the hero. The next two functions are obviously required: the hero fights and defeats the villains. What is interesting, however, and needs a little documentation is the fact that the hero always fights alone, without help from the society. Shane rides to town alone to face three men, leaving the farmers at home; Hatton stands up to Surrett alone and later defeats him and his gang with only the comic help of his two old sidekicks; Logan fights Bragg alone, though the town is at stake; Pearl fights and kills Lewt without help; and Jeff shoots it out with four gunfighters all by himself in order to save the town of Dawson: 12. The hero fights the villains. 13. The hero defeats the villains. After the fight, the society is safe. Shane wins the valley for the farmers. As he tells Joey after he kills Wilson and the Rikers, "Ride on home to your mother and tell her . . . tell her everything's all right, that there are no more guns in the valley." Dodge City is so safe after the battle that Tex and Rusty, Hatton's sidekicks, have this exchange against a background of church music: "Now listen

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

47

to that, singing hymns and it ain't even Sunday. Nobody in sight, even a friendly drunk." "Doggone if this place ain't gettin' so pure and noble it ain't fit to live in." Logan fights Bragg, against his will, because the town insists; as he says later, "I could have backed down, turned the whole town over to Bragg." Pearl kills Lewt to save Jesse and what he stands for—the railroad, the settlers, and so forth. Jeff saves the town of Dawson for the miners and their homes, families, and churches: 14. The society is safe. After the fight, or after the hero decides to make the fight, society finally accepts him. Staggering away from the fight, Jeff is surrounded by the smiling people of Dawson, who only minutes before were insulting or ignoring him, and he is embraced by Renée, who was previously the most unpleasant of all. Abbey falls in love with Hatton only after he has become sheriff and challenged Surrett; Logan wins a new girlfriend, and the people of Jacksonville decide not to hang him, after he leads them against the Indians. Pearl is killed in her fight; but just before it, she is offered a new home in the city and a proper education, first by Jesse and then, as final proof of her acceptance, by Jesse's ladylike fiancée. Shane leaves the valley after the fight, thus avoiding the probable gratitude and acceptance of the farmers. He tells Joey, who begs him to stay, that he is leaving because "there is no living with a killing," but we know, from Starrett's comments about his wife and Shane as well as from their tender and restrained parting, that Shane is really leaving because of the love that has grown between him and his friend's wife, a love that is only indicated after he has put on his guns and decided to fight Riker. This function, by the way, occurs much more strongly in other classical Westerns, such as Cimarron, Bend of the River, Yellow Sky, Union Pacific, and Vera Cruz, where the hero is accepted by the arbiters of respectable society after he has saved the group from destruction: 15. The society accepts the hero. Our last function describes the hero losing in some way the special status he has had in the society. What this means is that he is no longer either willing or able to take the role of special person that was Conferred because of his unique ability. Shane leaves, relinquishing his newly acquired position as the deadliest man in the valley. There is no law for a hundred miles, and he could, of course, stay in the valley and maximize the rewards of his power and the farmers' gratitude; but he gives up his status as gunfighter and savior and chooses instead the dark night and the cold mountains. Hatton

48

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

marries Abbey after cleaning up Dodge and moves on to brighter horizons, since, as we are told, Dodge is no longer exciting enough for him to have a job there. Logan also leaves the town he has protected, possibly to return; but now he is broke and no longer a leading force in the settlement. Pearl, of course, dies, thereby surrendering her special sexual status. We are not told exactly what happens to Jeff after the fight, but there are enough hints for us to make a good guess. Ben, his older, murdered friend, was always trying to get him to settle down on a ranch or in Dawson. As Renée and his horse hold him up after the shoot-out, Jeff softly rings a little bell on his saddle horn that was earlier established as a momento and symbol of Ben; also, with the death of Rhonda, Jeff is left in the care of Renée, who promises to fix him up and who represents the good people of Dawson. So we are left with the feeling that he has turned the corner; now he cares for people, appreciates friends, and will marry and settle down in Dawson. If he does—or even if he doesn't—Dawson is now like Dodge City. It no longer needs his special ability, and thus whether he stays or goes, he will inevitably lose his special status. This ending—the hero marrying and settling in the now peaceful community, becoming just like everybody else—is the most common ending throughout the classical Western, though not among the five we have discussed. This resolution is either explicit or implied in WeJJs Far go, Union Pacific, San

Antonio, California,

Whispering

Smith, and Yellow

Sky, among

others:

16. The hero loses or gives up his special

status.

This completes the functions for the classical plot, which I will list here for convenience. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

The hero enters a social group. The hero is unknown to the society. The hero is revealed to have an exceptional ability. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero; the hero is given a special status. The society does not completely accept the hero. There is a conflict of interests between the villains and the society. The villains are stronger than the society; the society is weak. There is a strong friendship or respect between the hero and a villain. The villains threaten the society. The hero avoids involvement in the conflict. The villains endanger a friend of the hero.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

The The The The The

49

hero fights the villains. hero defeats the villains. society is safe. society accepts the hero. hero loses or gives up his special status.

These sixteen functions describe the narrative structure of the classical Western, which presents a dramatic model of communication and action between characters who represent different types of people inherent in our conceptualization of society. The characters who symbolize these social types are the heroes, the villains, and the society. We can make explicit the conceptual or classificatory meanings of these characters by revealing the oppositional structure of the Western myth; we must understand how the different characters are different, what their recurring or defining points of conflict and opposition are. The code, in which these basic social concepts are represented by the characters, will vary from plot to plot; in the classical plot, probably because it is the prototype, the characters are vivid and their meanings clear. Just as there are three distinct sets of characters, there are also three basic oppositions, each differentiating between at least two of the characters, plus a fourth opposition that is less important structurally and will be treated separately. Perhaps the most important opposition is that separating the hero from the society, the opposition between those who are outside society and those who are inside society. This inside/outside contrast is fairly rigorous in its typing of the hero and the society, but it is rather relaxed in its treatment of the villains, who are, as we shall see, sometimes inside and sometimes outside. A second opposition is that between good and bad, a dichotomy that separates the society and the hero from the villains. Third, there is the clear distinction between the strong and the weak, which distinguishes the hero and the villains from the society. The fourth opposition primarily contrasts the hero with everybody else and is perhaps the typically American aspect of the Western—the opposition between wilderness and civilization; this opposition is similar to the inside/outside contrast but not identical. The villains may be outside of society but are always seen as part of civilization. In order to demonstrate these oppositions and reveal the codes through which they are structured into the characters, I will comment on each of the five films already discussed, but I will concentrate on Shane and, to a lesser extent, on The Far Country. This restriction should allow for some analytic depth without undue repetition. Unfortunately, since so much of the coding is done through visuals—clothing, background, movements, expressions—the

50

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

only sure w a y to make these points clear and convincing would be provide the films themselves along with the analysis, which the research into scholarly publishing technology has not as yet made possible. The inside/outside opposition is coded at one level, in Shane as in most classical Westerns, through the contrast of wandering, unsettled life with domestic, established life. The film begins as Shane rides out of the mountains and across the valley in scenes that are crosscut with views of the Starrett farm, its garden, fences, cows; smoke is rising from the chimney as Joey plays, Marion cooks, and Starrett cuts down a tree. Shane rides up to the farm and immediately tells Starrett, "I didn't expect to see any fences around here." Then, a minute or two later, "It's been a long time since I've seen a Jersey cow." Shane is alone—he has no family, no friends, and no ties. When he is having dinner with the Starretts, using "the good plates, an extra fork," Starrett says, "I wouldn't ask you where you're bound," and Shane replies, "One place or another, someplace I've never been." Then, as though to make the point absolutely clear, Starrett comments, "Well, I know one thing. The only w a y they'll get me out of here is in a pine box. . . . We've got our roots down here. . . . It's the first real home we've ever had." This kind of coding can be observed throughout the film. The other farmers also have families, children, possessions; and they seem to distrust Shane for this reason—he's got nothing to lose; he doesn't fit in their world. At the end of the film, Shane rides back into the mountains alone. The same opposition is coded at other levels—Shane has no last name; he grows nervous and jumpy at ordinary domestic sounds, a playing child or a wandering calf; he wears buckskins, clothing that identifies him with the wilds and is worn by no one else in the film. When he first appears in buckskins, Starrett distrusts him, and afterward Shane changes into farming clothes, symbolically attempting to join society; but when he again dons his buckskins, Starrett immediately starts a fight with him, indicating again their basic difference. The Riker brothers and Wilson are somewhat indeterminate on this opposition, yet clearly more inside than outside. They obviously do not share the values of the farmers; but if we agree to leave values for the good/bad opposition, then these villains are mostly inside society. The Rikers are ranchers—settled, with large amounts of land and cattle, and with important social responsibilities (an army contract, many hired hands, and so on). Rufus Riker, the owner and leader, is old and grizzled; he w a s fighting Indians when Starrett was a child. There is in Shane a sort of mini-opposition between the old society and the new society; but for our purposes the Rikers,

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

51

old or new, are more identified with society than not. Wilson, like Shane, is a wandering gunfighter and thus could also be identified as completely outside the society. That he is not serves to reinforce the split between Shane and the society. Wilson is from Cheyenne, which, together with his last name, gives him more of a background and a home than the hero has; he comes to town wearing a black hat, a black, buttoned-down vest, a striped shirt, and black armbands, looking exactly like a gambler from the city who is out of place in the wilds of the isolated valley. Both Hatton in Dodge City and Jeff in The Far Country appear as unsettled wanderers in the midst of a domestic community. Hatton has been a soldier in three wars, a cowboy, and a buffalo hunter; he does not want to be sheriff because he does not want to be tied down by responsibilities. By contrast, the townspeople want to settle down, start businesses, and raise families. Similarly, Jeff is an adventurer who is in Alaska to make money and get out, as opposed to the miners who want to settle and build a town. Unlike Shane, who tries to join society and is forced out, both Hatton and Jeff resist joining and are sucked in. Jeff, in particular insists upon absolute social noninvolvement. When Renee hints that she wants to marry him and live in San Francisco, he tells her he doesn't like people and she tells him he should, "because if you don't like people, they won't like you, and then you'll be lonely like . . . (a coyote howls in the distance)" Jeff replies, "You know, maybe he likes to be lonely . . . He never asks any favors for himself, never trusts anybody so he doesn't get hurt, that's not a bad way to live. Maybe you'll learn that when you grow up." The villans in both films are even more inside society than in Shane: Surrett wears a suit, owns the saloon, and buys cattle; Mr. Gannon wears a suit, or at least a jacket, and is a judge. Pearl is recognizably outside of society because of her wild saloon upbringing in Mexico, as portrayed in the opening scenes, because of her lack of proper manners and education, her Indian blood, and her uncontrollable passion. She is contrasted with the prim graciousness of Laura Bell (Lillian Gish), the gentlemanly attitudes and expressions of Jesse, the grace and charm of Jesse's fiancée, and the beautiful and cultured furniture, carpets, paintings, and figurines of the magnificent McCanlis Ranch. This contrast is reinforced when Lewt and the senator discuss the complete absurdity of Lewt's marrying Pearl on account of her background and Indian blood. Finally, in Canyon Passage, the opposition is somewhat different, since Logan is not an outsider but a businessman in the town. Nevertheless, Logan's difference from the other settlers and miners

52

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

is continually underscored. As we have seen, he is described by a steady stream of characters as reckless, restless, and uncouth; without hesitation, he gives George $2,000, to the obvious disgust of his accountant, because "that's what friends are for." His businessman-adventurer image is strongly emphasized in an early conversation between Logan and Cornelius, the bank teller: LOGAN: Gold is only yellow gravel, Cornelius. CORNELIUS: Yes, but the yellow color makes all the difference. LOGAN: Butter's yellow too, and you can spread it on bread. Ever try doing that with gold? CORNELIUS: For a businessman you've got odd ideas. If I were a banker, and I shall be someday, I'd set you down as unsound and lend you nothing.

Moreover, when his fiancee, Caroline, is trying to convince Logan to settle down, she asks him hopefully if he likes Jacksonville; and he replies, "It's a place to do business in," clearly implying that he has no further attachment to the town. He is willing to antagonize the entire town by setting someone free who has coldly murdered one of the citizens, and he seems almost unconcerned when he discovers that his business has been burned down and he is broke. Thus, for all his obvious attachments to society, Logan's detachment is repeatedly stressed through his actions, the dialogue, and the calm, disinterested expressions brought to the character by Dana Andrews. Bragg, on the other hand, is clearly outside of society, since he has no job, no friends, and seemingly no home. But in this opposition the location of the villains is not particularly important, since it is primarily concerned with the difference between the hero and the society. Lewt begins more inside of society than Pearl and ends up more outside than her. Also, in other films such as Bend of the River and Yellow Sky, the villains are comrades of the hero and as much outside of society as he is. In the classical Western, the good/bad opposition repeats some of the social imagery of the inside/outside dichotomy; but since it is aimed more specifically at the difference between the society and the villains, it is more explicitly concerned with values. The opposition of good versus bad does not depend entirely upon a difference of values; the existence of a second coding of the distinction between good and bad will become important in the analysis of the professional plot, when the difference in values has virtually disappeared. But the explicit coding of good and bad is between the social, progressive values of the members of society versus the selfish, money values of the villains. The decent citizens are committed to taming the land, raising families, and bringing churches,

STRUCTURE OF T H E W E S T E R N FILM

53

schools, business, and law to the West, a commitment repeated in virtually every classical Western. The villains, however, are committed to personal gain by any means and at any cost, usually at the cost of progress, decency, and law. In Shane, the conflict is not between ranching and farming but between community progress and individual exploitation of the land. This is most clearly stated in a discussion that takes place after the burial of Torrey, the farmer killed by Wilson. Two of the farmers, Howells and Lewis, have given up and are about to leave the valley. When Starrett tells them they should stay, Howells asks "What for?" STARRETT: Because we can have a regular settlement here. W e can have a town and churches and a school. LEWIS:

Graveyards.

STARRETT: I don't know, but you . . . you've just got to, that's all. SHANE: Know what he wants you to stay for? Something that means more to you than anything else—your families, your wives an kids, like you, Lewis, with your girls, Shipstead with his boys. They've got a right to stay here and grow up and be happy, and it's up to you people to have nerve enough to not give it up. STARRETT: That's right. W e can't give up this valley and we ain't going to do it. This is farming country, a place where people can come and bring up their families. W h o is Ruff Riker or anyone else to run us away from our own homes? He only wants to grow his beef and what we want to grow up is families, to grow 'em good and grow 'em up strong, the way they was meant to be grown. God didn't make all this country just for one man like Riker. LEWIS:

He's got it though, and that's what counts.

This states the conflict clearly:—the farmers want community, Riker wants domination and money. The same is true in The Far Country. Mr. Gannon comes to Dawson to steal claims and gold for his own profit, but the miners want to build a town. While they're discussing who's going to protect them from Gannon, they make their plans: W h o says we're going to pull out? Me and Grits and Molasses, we're going to stay right on here through the winter. We're going to make this a real town. DUSTY: YOU mean permanent? GRITS: Sure nuff. We're going to have lampposts, sidewalks, might even have ourselves a church. MOLASSES: I can sing hymns. MINER: I got a wife and kids, might be I'll move 'em in. Build 'em a real home with a porch and a bathtub and everything.

HOMINY:

STRUCTURE OF THE W E S T E R N FILM

54 DUSTY:

W h y yeah, w e can build a school and a courthouse, huh?

This conflict of values also characterizes Dodge City. As Dr. Irving tells his wife, "It's no use trying to make an honest town out of Dodge City. Surrett's crowd scares off the honest, law-abiding settlers." And his wife answers, "It's becoming unsafe for a woman to walk down the streets in this town." In Duel in the Sun the senator reads how the railroad will help the small ranchers and exclaims, "Small ranchers! Ignorant nesters spoiling the open range with their measly fences." To this Jesse replies, "The railroad will bring new people, schools. Paradise Flats will become a real town." "And that same railway," snarls the senator, "will ship a lot of immigrants from up north down here, and they'll start in votin' and puttin' in taxes." Later, of course, the senator almost slaughters the railroad workers, and Lewt begins blowing up trains. In Canyon Passage, while the "good people" want to raise families and promote progress, George, who is a murderer, wants only to loaf and gamble; and Logan has to fight Bragg, who is a thief, murderer, and rapist, to keep him from taking over the town. The second coding of the good/bad opposition is more subtle and perhaps even more important than that of social as opposed to selfish values. This coding, which differentiates those people who are kind and pleasant to others from those people who are not, separates the villains from the society, and it makes it possible for the hero, who is not obviously committed to churches and schools, to be considered as good. When Shane first rides up to the Starrett farm, he is friendly and pleasant to Starrett; he goes out of his way to speak kindly to the boy; and later, he compliments Marion on "an elegant dinner." On many other occasions—at the farmers' meeting, at the dance, at the store—Shane is seen to be friendly and nice. Similarly, the farmers and their wives never quarrel, say nice things to each other, and are often seen visiting one another and making small talk. The villains are never nice or friendly to anyone. They don't quarrel among themselves, but they are always complaining, bragging, threatening, or insulting someone. They seem to have and need no friends, they never relax, and they never give or receive human comfort. Wilson, in particular, only speaks to be sinister; his fixed, evil smile makes him a caricature of inhumanity.

This nice/not nice coding is true throughout the classical Western. Western villains, it seems, can only be cruel, unpleasant, or sly, never friendly and charming. Once in a while, as in Bend of the River or Vera Cruz, the villain starts out friendly and nice, but this always proves to be deceit and manipulation, not real kindness. Usually,

STRUCTURE OF T H E W E S T E R N FILM

55

the villains begin and end mean and nasty like Bragg, Surrett, Gannon, and Lewt. It may seem that villains have to be mean in order to be villains, but of course this is not true either in real life or in drama. W e all know men and women who are selfish and vicious in business, but kind and generous in personal relations; also, many dramas from Macbeth to Bonnie and Clyde have portrayed killers and thieves as often kind, generous, and sympathetic. Just because someone believes in churches, schools, law, and progress does not necessarily mean that he is always friendly and nice; however, in the classical Western, no villains are sympathetic and no heroes or members of society are unsympathetic, a fact that is due to this nice/not nice coding of the good/bad opposition. This coding is not derived from the social values versus selfish values distinction but is simply added to it, making it possible for the hero to be on the good side of an opposition even after the distinction in values has been lost. A third opposition, between the strong and the weak, contrasts both the hero and the villains with the society. The hero is a gunfighter; he possesses some special ability that makes him capable of defending himself. Similarly, the villains are strong, in numbers as well as in fighting ability. The society is remarkably weak. They seldom carry guns and have no fighting skill. Though they are usually numerous, they never combine into a fighting group to defend their homes and families. To make their weakness as convincing as possible, the social group rarely contains young, healthy men; typically, the settlers or citizens consist of women, children, and elderly, middle-aged, plump or comic men. The farmers in Shane are unusually young and healthy, but they are virtually helpless in the face of violence. They continually complain that the only law is three days ride away. When one of their neighbors decides to leave after having his crops ruined, his fences cut, his animals shot, and his family scared to death, their only response is to wish him luck and have a picnic. Later, when another neighbor has been openly murdered by Wilson, their only thought is to get out as fast as possible. Shane tells them they should have nerve enough to fight for the valley, but they never get that nerve. Starrett convinces them to stay after they show a little anger at Riker's burning one of the abandoned farms, yet their disarray and weakness is shown in the ensuing discussion: HOWELLS: JOHNSON: HOWELLS: STARRETT:

What's to keep Riker from setting fire to my place? Just stay on your own ground. Yeah, and you'll be Torrey there (the buried man). Now don't you forget there's a law in this country against

56

S T R U C T U R E OF T H E W E S T E R N FILM

HOWELLS: The law's three days ride from here. SHIPSTEAD: You know that, Joe. STARRETT: Just give me a little time. HOWELLS: Who's going to do the fighting with Riker? He's got us on the run and he knows it. STARRETT: (desperate) Now you men . . . just hang on, that's all. HOWELLS: (angry) That's it, just hang on. STARRETT: I promise you something's going to be done about it. SHIPSTEAD:But just what, Joe? STARRETT: You leave that to me. I've made up my mind I'm going to have this out with Riker. MARION: You're taking on too much, Joe.

Of all the farmers, only Starrett shows some nerve. It is just assumed that he's going to do their fighting; no one offers to help him. But, as Marion says, he's taking on too much. This is made clear when Riker and his men first ride up to his farm. Starrett, together with his wife and child, stands with his son's gun—which turns out to be unloaded—defending his cabin. Morgan, Riker's brother, grins and asks sarcastically if Starrett's expecting trouble. At this, Starrett grimaces, looks embarrassed, drops his eyes, and lowers his gun. Then, just as Riker is telling the farmer that he could gun-blast him off his land right now, Shane appears beside Starrett wearing a gun. Now in his steely-eyed presence, the Rikers are confused and unsure. They ride off, leaving only threats. At the end of the film, as Starrett prepares to ride to town to kill Riker, Shane—once again in buckskins and wearing a gun—stops him, saying, "Maybe you're a match for Riker, maybe not. But you're no match for Wilson." Shane, Wilson, and the Rikers are clearly strong. Shane is typed early in the film as a gunfighter by his quickness to draw at any unexpected sound. He beats up Chris and then holds his own against an entire saloonful of cowboys; later, he demonstrates his speed and accuracy with a gun during Joey's shooting lesson; and finally, he rides alone to town to fight for the farmers. The Rikers are strong because they have the numbers, fighting background, and Wilson, a hired gunfighter whom even the farmers have heard of and who, Shane tells us twice, is "fast, fast on the draw." In one interesting scene, Wilson and Shane study each other in the moonlight, saying nothing but seeming to circle one another like equally skilled foes preparing for the kill. The other films are similar to Shane. Logan is the only one in Jacksonville who can fight Bragg and save the town; Hatton is the only one in Dodge City who can fight Surrett; and Jeff is the only one in Dawson who can stand up to Mr. Gannon and his gunfighters.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

57

When Jeff refuses to be marshall in Dawson, the job is given to Rube, a middle-aged, often drunk man who doesn't carry a gun. The citizens of Dawson, like those of Dodge City, are women and middle-aged men w h o can think of nothing to do w h e n their homes and lives are threatened except protest verbally and then abandon the town to the villains, w h o are strong and organized. A s w e have seen, Pearl's special strength lies in her sexual prowess and Lewt's in his fast draw, though Pearl also proves to be good with a gun. Jesse, the representative of society, has an eastern education, a l w a y s wears suits or city clothes, rides in a buckboard instead of a horse, and never carries a gun; Jesse confronts Lewt and is helpless before him, like all members of the w e a k society w h e n confronted by the strong villain. The fourth basic opposition of the Western myth is that between the wilderness and civilization. T h e difference between this opposition and the inside society/outside society distinction will become clear if by society w e mean having roots, an occupation, and responsibilities, while by civilization w e mean a concern with the money, tools, and products of American culture. T h e Indians become an easy test, for, as in Broken A r r o w , they w o u l d typically be inside society (their own) but outside of civilization. T h e wilderness/civilization contrast is not as central as the other oppositions, and it is sometimes, though rarely, only vaguely present or missing altogether. But it is important because it serves to separate the hero from every other character. The hero is the only character w h o is both good and strong, and this fourth opposition explains how he alone can be this w a y . It is because he is associated with the wilderness, while all other characters—good or bad, w e a k or strong, inside or outside society—are associated with civilization. This identification with the wilderness can be established in various ways, though purely visual imagery or an explanation of his background— his life as a trapper or association with the Indians—or through the dramatization of his knowledge of the land and wildlife; the minimal requirement for the hero is that he belongs to the West and has no association with the East, with education and culture. The East is always associated with weakness, cowardice, selfishness, or arrogance. The Western hero is felt to be good and strong because he is involved with the pure and noble wilderness, not with the contaminating civilization of the East. Large scale, interesting Westerns, such as The Big Country, have been financial disasters perhaps because they have made the error (with respect to the myth) of making the hero an eastern dude. The east-west polarity in S h a n e is tacit, since no one is from the East, and Shane's identification with the wilderness is entirely

58

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

visual. As the film opens, he is seen riding down from the mountains and then as a tiny speck against the immense wilderness of the valley. Again, at the end of the film, he rides directly into the rugged, snow-capped Teton Mountains, even though that is obviously not the way to leave the valley, so that once more he is visualized as at one with the vast wilderness. In fact, he is the only character ever filmed alone against the spectacular mountains, just as he is the only character to wear buckskins, a clothing style that clearly associates him with the wilderness. The Teton Mountains are used visually in Shane to reinforce an association of the wilderness with strength and goodness; this is done by never letting the mountains be seen at the same time as the villains and by always using the same mountains as background when Shane is with the farmers. This device is carried to such lengths that, when Shane and Starrett go to town from the farm, they go down the road that faces the mountains; but when the Rikers and Wilson come from the same town to the same farm, they arrive from the opposite direction, thus avoiding being seen against the mountains. In one moonlight scene, the snow-capped tips of the Tetons glow like a halo directly over the heads of the three Starretts and Shane. In another instance, when the farmers, the Rikers, or Wilson arrive in the town, the mountains are not seen; the town is filmed from the wrong angle or the saloon is simply seen in close-up, filling the screen. But the two times when Shane goes to town alone—particularly the last time, when he goes to destroy the villains—the town is filmed with the mountains towering over the saloon, as though they were about to crush and devour it. In this way Shane is strongly identified with the wilderness, while the others are associated with such artifacts of civilization as farms, buckboards, saloons, and stores. Jeff in The Far Country is also, though less systematically, singled out for special imagery against the mountains, but his identification with the wilderness is more varied. Of all the people involved, good and bad alike, he alone suspects that the trail over the mountain is dangerous because of the possibility of an avalanche, and he turns out to be right. Everyone else in Dawson believes that the only route out of the town is back through Skagway, but Jeff finds an Indian who tells him of a way out on the river through the wilderness that Jeff decides to take. In Dodge City, Hatton is known to be a buffalo hunter, a trail guide, and an Indian-fighter. In the opening scenes, he is shown to be a friend of the Indians, and he is visualized against the wide open spaces of the Kansas prairies. In the last scenes of Duel in the Sun, Pearl is seen riding alone across the desert past a howling coyote; furthermore, she is half Indian, and this is a classic means

59

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

of associating a hero with a knowledge of, and love for, the wilderness. Finally, Logan is only weakly identified with the forests of Oregon. Although he leads the settlers against the Indians, he is not emphasized as having a special knowledge or ability in the wilderness. He does, however, profess to be "stuck on this Oregon," and he is the only character in the film, besides Lucy, who is ever seen leaving Jacksonville to travel through the forests; the photography and music of these scenes strongly reinforce the visual association of beauty, strength, and goodness. These four oppositions—inside society/outside society, good/bad, strong/weak, and wilderness/civilization—comprise the basic classifications of people in the Western myth. In the next section, we shall see how the characters identified by these oppositions change their coding and their interaction slightly in order to create a new Western plot, which I call the vengeance variation. THE VENGEANCE VARIATION

Of the ten films on the list of top-grossing Westerns characterized as vengeance plots, seven were released between 1949 and 1961, and only one before 1949. In order of appearance, the vengeance variation more or less follows the classical plot, since the films with the latter structure occur mostly between 1931 and 1955. The structure of the vengeance story further suggests that it develops out of and is a variation upon the structure of the classical plot, in which the conceptual distance between the hero and the society is no longer as simple and straightforward as it was in the classical version. Unlike the classical hero who joins the society because of his strength and their weakness, the vengeance hero leaves the society because of his strength and their weakness. Moreover, the classical hero enters his fight because of the values of society, whereas the vengeance hero abandons his fight because of those same values. Thus, the vengeance variation indicates a change in the relationship between the hero and society, which seems to begin a steady deterioration that continues through the transition theme and the professional plot. To analyze this variation, I shall use only four films—Stagecoach, T h e M a n from

Laramie,

One-Eyed

Jacks, a n d

Nevada Smith—and I shall limit myself to a relatively brief discussion since the vengeance structure is similar to, but less popular than, the classical structure. Stagecoach The 1939 film Stagecoach is quite an important event in the history

60

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

of movies, since it is not only a recognized classic and a work of art, but it made John Wayne into a major star and started him toward becoming perhaps the most popular and enduring screen personality of all. The film was John Ford's first Western since the introduction of sound, and to make it he and his crew went to the beautiful Monument Valley on the Navaho reservation in southeastern Utah, a desert land spotted by towering sandstone monuments, which provides perhaps the most satisfying setting for the Western myth and was later often used by John Ford for the making of his many fine Westerns. In addition to John Wayne as Ringo, Stagecoach stars Thomas Mitchell as Doc Boone and Claire Trevor as Dallas. We learn that Geronimo has escaped from the reservation just as a stagecoach is about to leave for Lordsburg. As the passengers gather, we meet Doc Boone, a friendly but alcoholic doctor who is evicted from his room and the town as a derelict. We also meet Dallas, a saloon girl whom the prim and righteous Ladies League is kicking out of town; Mrs. Mallory, a refined and delicate young lady from the East, who is going to meet her husband in the cavalry; Hatfield, a cultured gentleman gambler who offers his protection to Mrs. Mallory; Peacock, a meek eastern whiskey-drummer whose samples are appropriated by Doc Boone; and Gatewood, the town banker who is stealing money from his bank and taking the stage to escape. We also meet Buck, the driver, who is a comic, harmless fellow, and Curly, the sheriff, who learns that the Ringo Kid has broken out of jail and takes the stage expecting to find the Kid in Lordsburg, where he would be looking for the Plumber brothers who killed his father. When all these characters are warned of the threat from Geronimo, they decide to continue their trip with a cavalry escort. On the road, the stage meets the Ringo Kid, who has lost his horse; and Curly, supported by the cavalry, arrests him. On the trip the Kid becomes interested in Dallas, but Dallas is snubbed by Mrs. Mallory, Hatfield, and Gatewood. Mrs. Mallory seems to recognize Hatfield from the East, which he denies; Gatewood becomes obnoxious, and Doc Boone becomes drunk. The cavalry escort turns off, leaving the stage all alone in the desert. At the next stop, Mrs. Mallory faints and is revealed to be pregnant and in labor. Doc sobers up, Dallas pitches in, and together they deliver a baby. Later, Ringo asks Dallas to marry him after he has killed the Plumbers for murdering his father and brother. Dallas, who doesn't want Ringo to learn of her past or to go to jail, tells him she will marry him only if he will give up his revenge, forget the Plumbers, and escape to his ranch in Mexico where she will meet him after she gets Mrs. Mallory and the baby safely to Lordsburg. He finally agrees and sneaks out of the stage station

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

61

with a rifle and a horse. But just outside, he stops and waits for Curly, w h o handcuffs him. A t this moment, Ringo points to smoke signals on the horizon, and everyone immediately jumps into the stagecoach for a final dash to town. The Indians attack. Curly, Doc, Hatfield, and Ringo fight them off for miles, with Ringo heroically climbing through w i n d o w s and jumping to the horses when the reins are lost. Finally, the cavalry saves them and they arrive in Lordsburg with only Hatfield dead. In Lordsburg Ringo is recognized, and the three Plumber brothers prepare for a fight. Ringo learns about Dallas but doesn't care, and after promising Curly to return, he goes looking for the Plumbers with only three bullets. He kills them and escapes unscathed, then he returns to Curly, especting to go back to jail. But Curly and the Doc turn him loose, and he leaves for M e x i c o with Dallas. The Man from

Laramie

The Man from Laramie is another of the Anthony Mann-James Stewart films made in the early fifties. This one, like The Far Country, was released in 1955. James Stewart plays W i l l Lockhart, Arthur Kennedy plays Vic Hansboro, and Donald Crisp plays A l e c Waggoman. A s W i l l Lockhart, a former captain in the army at Laramie, leads his freight wagons across the prairies, w e learn that he resigned from the army in order to find and kill the man who has been selling guns to the Apaches, because with those guns the Apaches massacred a cavalry patrol that included his younger brother. His old and grizzled friend Charley, however, warns him that his obsession with vengeance will destroy him. Delivering the supplies in town, Lockhart meets and admires Barbara Waggoman, owner of the store and fiancée of Vic Hansboro. Vic is the foreman for Alec Waggoman, Barbara's uncle, w h o owns the area's largest ranch and also controls the town. Lockhart goes to a salt formation to get a load of salt for his return trip, but he and his men are attacked and his wagons burned by Dave Waggoman, Alec's wild and vicious son. Vic rides up and orders Dave away, telling Lockhart that A l e c will pay for the damages. Later, in town, Lockhart sees Dave and beats him up, then turns to fight V i c who comes to help Dave. The fight is stopped before either wins, and afterward Lockhart is offered a job by Kate Canaday, a middle-aged woman w h o is the only small rancher left who has refused to sell to Waggoman. Lockhart turns down the offer, then rides to the Waggoman ranch where he makes friends with Vic and is paid for his wagons by Alec. But Lockhart has let it be known that he is looking for rifles,

62

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

and that night in town he is attacked with a knife by the town drunk. Lockhart fights him off, but the man is later killed and Lockhart is accused and arrested. Kate offers to bail him out if he will work for her, so he agrees. Meanwhile, Dave is told by Alec to take orders from Vic, which makes Dave even madder. Vic, we discover, has been raised by Alec and hopes to inherit part of the ranch, but he is threatened by Alec with abrupt dismissal if Dave gets in trouble. Later, as Lockhart is looking for Kate's cattle, he is attacked by Dave. He shoots Dave in the hand, forcing him to drop his gun; then Dave's men capture Lockhart and Dave shoots a hole in Lockhart's hand for revenge. Dave, mad and bitter, rides alone to the mountains where he and Vic have hidden a wagonful of rifles they intend to sell to the Indians. Dave starts a fire signal, intending to give all the rifles to the Apaches at once. But Vic arrives and, in order to prevent a massacre of the town, he tries to stop Dave, then has to kill him in self-defense. He takes Dave's body back to Alec, claiming he found him on the trail; and Alec, after first blaming Lockhart, tells Vic to take him to where he found the body, suspecting that Dave may have been selling rifles. As they get close to the rifles, Vic tries to make the old man turn back, then he pushes him off a cliff. But Alec doesn't die, and Lockhart finds him, learning from him that Vic is the gunrunner and killer. Lockhart follows Vic back to the rifles, yet he arrives too late to prevent Vic from giving the signal. Lockhart forces Vic to help him push the rifles over the cliff and destroy them; then, because Vic is responsible for the death of his brother, Lockhart tries to kill him in cold blood. But he finds he cannot and, in disgust, tells him to leave. As Vic rides away, he is surrounded at the base of the mountain by Apaches and killed. Later, after Kate and Alec decide to get married, Lockhart leaves the town, telling Barbara as he rides away to meet him in Laramie where he will again be a captain in the army.

One-Eyed Jacks Marlon Brando was the director as well as the star of One-Eyed Jacks, his only directing effort to date. The film began shooting around Monterey in 1958 and w a s finally released in 1961, after a million feet of film had been shot. The final film, which runs 141 minutes, was cut from an original length of 4 hours and 31 minutes. Besides Brando as Rio, the film stars Karl Maiden as Dad Longworth and Ben Johnson as Bob Amory.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

63

Rio and Dad Longworth are thieves in Mexico, where Rio is a playboy who deceives noble ladies with tales of his mother and his sincerity. After a bank robbery, they are trapped by the Mexican police and Dad takes the only horse, promising to return with another horse for Rio. But Dad keeps the money and abandons Rio, and Rio spends five years in jail vowing to get revenge. When Rio escapes from jail, he begins looking for Dad Longworth. He meets two other crooks, Bob and Harvey, who want him to help them rob the bank in Monterey and tell him that Dad is sheriff there. He agrees, and they all ride to Monterey. Rio looks up Dad, who is married and has a stepdaughter Louisa. After a tense moment, Dad pretends that he tried to come back for Rio and Rio pretends that he got away from the trap and holds no grudges. Dad invites him for dinner and to the celebration in town the next day. Since the banks are closed the next day, the crooks attend the celebration and Rio takes Louisa to the beach where, with his fake sinceity, he seduces her. But he finds that he really likes her, and afterward he tells her it was all a lie, that he wanted to hurt Longworth through her. When Louisa comes home in the morning, Longworth finds out what happened and, still pretending to be friendly, he and his deputies capture Rio in town. Then Dad whips him mercilessly with a bull whip and crushes the fingers on his gun hand with a rifle butt. Modesto, Bob, and Harvey take Rio to a fishing village and, while he is recovering, Louisa rides out to see him. He tells her why he wants to kill Longworth, but she asks him to forget his revenge and go away with her. When he refuses, she leaves. Later in the village, Bob makes a crack about Louisa, Rio curses and challenges Bob and Harvey; though they back down, their hatred for Rio is apparent. The next day, Bob, Harvey, and Modesto leave for Mexico; on the way, Bob and Harvey kill Modesto and ride to Monterey to rob the bank. During the robbery a young girl, the bank teller, and both crooks are killed. Longworth and the townspeople blame Rio and ride out to get him. Meanwhile, Rio has decided to forget Longworth, get Louisa, and leave. Riding toward town, though, he is captured by a posse and taken to jail. In jail, he tells Louisa that he only wanted to go away with her, and she helps him to escape. At the same time Longworth is being denounced by his wife, who also informs him that their daughter Louisa is pregnant by Rio. Furious, Longworth rides to town to kill Rio and arrives just as Rio escapes. Longworth attacks, they fight, and Rio wins. With Longworth dead, Rio and Louisa ride out of town just ahead of a posse. Rio then leaves her to make his escape; he promises to return in the spring for her and the child.

64 Nevada

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

Smith

Nevada Smith, which was directed by Henry Hathaway, was released in 1966 and starred Steve McQueen in the title role with Arthur Kennedy as Bill Bowdry and Karl Maiden as Tom Fitch. Max Sand is a boy living with his father and Indian mother at an isolated mine that they work. While he is away from the house, three men ride by, asking directions; he points the way to the house and they steal his horse. While he runs back, they go to the house, believing that the Sands have a fortune in hidden gold. To make Sand tell them where it is, they tie up and then skin his wife. When Max finally arrives, the three men have horribly killed his mother and father and fled. Max burns the cabin with his dead parents inside and vows vengeance. He wanders through the desert without a horse, gun, or food until he meets Jonas Cord, a traveling gun salesman who teaches him how to shoot. Max wanders on and works until he meets Niesa, an Indian girl working as a prostitute in a cowtown. He asks her, as he had everyone else, if she's seen a horse with certain markings, and she has, telling him who owns it. He confronts the man, Jesse Cole, a knife expert, and Cole runs. Max catches up and kills him in a knife fight. Max is badly hurt and Niesa takes him to her Indian village to recover. She loves him and asks him to stay, but he finally goes looking for the next man, Bill Bowdry. Bowdry is in a prison in a Louisiana swamp, so Max robs a payroll in order to be sent there. He meets and befriends Bowdry and also meets a girl named Pilar. With her help, the two men plan to escape, though no one has ever escaped from that prison. They escape in a canoe through the swamp, but the girl is bitten by a snake. In the swamp, Max confronts and kills Bowdry. Later Pilar dies, cursing Max and condemning his vengeance with her last breath. In the West, Max locates Tom Fitch, the third man, who is the leader of an outlaw gang. Max tries a trick to meet some of his men, but it backfires and Max is badly beaten. Rescued by a priest, Max is treated and lectured. The priest tries to stop him from continuing his search for vengeance, yet Max continues after Fitch until he finds the gang and is accepted into it. After a robbery, he finds Fitch alone and reveals his real identity. He shoots Fitch many times in the arms and legs yet finally decides not to kill him. Leaving Fitch maimed, Max turns away, throws his gun in the river, and rides off. These four films are typical of the vengeance plot and represent most of its structural variations and omissions. Beginning our analysis with the narrative structure, we find that the first function

65

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

occurs in all ten of the vengeance films on the list except for One-Eyed Jacks. This function states that the hero is either in society when the story begins, or at least w a s a member of society when the events happened that led to the story. For example, when Stagecoach begins, Ringo is an escaped convict—but earlier, as we find out, he was a peaceful kid on his father's ranch until the Plumbers killed his father and his brother and framed him, at the age of seventeen, for murder. Similarly, Lockhart, who is a vengeance-seeking loner when The Man from Laramie begins, was formerly a respected army captain. In Nevada Smith, the hero is a teenager living with his mother and father when the villains come. This function even occurs in The Searchers, where there are essentially two heroes—one a young man living with his adopted parents on a farm, the other a wanderer and suspected thief who comes to his brother's home and moves in just before the excitement begins. Only in One-Eyed Jacks is the hero definitely outside of society, being an outlaw when the film begins and having no social past that we ever hear about. With this exception, then, we have our first function: 1. The hero is or w a s a member of society. The next function describes the event that causes the hero to seek vengeance: the villains somehow harm him or his friends. Ringo's father and brother are killed by the Plumbers; Lockhart's brother is killed by Apaches armed with rifles sold by the villains; Rio, betrayed and abandoned by Dad Longworth, has to spend five years in jail. In each case, the villains also do harm to society. The Plumbers are thieves and killers, the gunrunners are responsible for Apaches leaving the reservation and killing citizens, and Dad Longworth is a bank robber. In most of the films the act that harms the hero also harms society. In two films—One-Eyed Jacks and The Naked Spur— they are different acts, but the structural effect is the same and in all cases the function applies: 2. T h e villains

do harm

to the hero

and

to the

society.

Function 3 is analogous to function 7 of the classical plot, which states that the villains are stronger than the society. But the third function of the vengeance variation changes this relation between the villains and society just a little by stating that the society is not able to punish the villains for their crimes. The villains are not threats to the very survival of society as they were in the classical plot, but they are able to harm individual members of society with impunity as far as the legal institutions of society are concerned. Everyone knows that the Plumbers are mean and vicious, but they get away with murder and robbery, while Ringo is wrongly sent

66

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

to jail. Similarly, neither the army nor the sheriff can find the men who are running guns to the Apaches. While Rio is punished for the robbery, Dad gets away with the money to find a new and pleasant life: 3. The society is unable to punish the villains. Recognizing that the society cannot rectify the wrong, the hero decides to punish the villains himself. Ringo breaks out of jail just to kill the Plumbers, and Rio breaks out of jail just to find and kill Longworth. Lockhart leaves the army in order to find the gunrunners, and Max Sand goes after the three men because no one else will. One conversation illustrates this function perfectly. After Max has burned his parents' bodies, his neighbors Mr. and Mrs. McCandlis arrive. They want him to live with them, but he says he must find the killers. MRS. MCCANDLIS:

Get 'em, M a x . Y o u go get

'em.

MR. MCCANDLIS: Elvira. MRS. MCCANDLIS: W h y not? If he doesn't, w h o will? MR. MCCANDLIS:

The

law.

MRS. MCCANDLIS: The law? W h a t law?

4. The hero seeks

vengeance.

To get revenge, the hero must leave society. Ringo is a convict shunned by Mrs. Mallory and Gatewood. Lockhart leaves his home and his career and becomes a wanderer; he is a stranger in the town, feared by the Waggomans and arrested by the sheriff. Rio has always been outside of society, and he goes after Longworth in the company of outlaws; and Max abandons his home and the McCandlises to become a killer, a thief, and an outlaw. During the last robbery by Fitch's gang, in fact, he watches fourteen soldiers being ambushed and killed without giving warning, just so he can get Fitch alone: 5. The hero goes outside of society. Like the classical hero, the vengeance hero has special ability as a fighter, which sets him apart from the society. The Ringo Kid has a reputation throughout the territory; his reputation can make Hatfield, a known killer, back off when the Kid tells him to "sit down!" The Kid shows his ability through his heroic acrobatics during the Indian fight and when he uses only three bullets to finish off the Plumbers, known to be the meanest and toughest men in the territory. His reputation and special status are apparent when

STRUCTURE OF THE W E S T E R N FILM

67

he finally rides into Lordsburg, is recognized, and the whole town begins to buzz with excitement. Lockhart shows his ability when he fights Dave and Vic, defeats an attacker with a knife, shoots Dave in the hand, and captures Vic and the rifles. His special status is recognized in that he becomes the only man in town to stand up to the Waggomans; Alec Waggoman becomes afraid of him, and the sheriff tries to run him out of town. Rio is known to be a fast draw, and his reputation and ability scare not only the townspeople but Bob and Harvey as well. Max Sand, in his search for vengeance, develops into a skilled gunfighter, as we see in the shooting lessons with Jonas Cord as well as in his fight with Fitch. He defeats a knife expert with a knife, and he escapes from an escape-proof prison: 6. The hero is revealed to have a special ability. 7. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero: the hero is given a special status. Before the hero can accomplish his revenge, someone representing the values of society asks him to give it up. Usually this person points out the uselessness of vengeance or the fact that the hero is becoming like the men he hunts. In Stagecoach it is Dallas who tries to stop the Kid. She is not exactly a member of society, but she is not outside society by choice, as is Ringo; she tenderly cares for the baby and Mrs. Mallory, a woman who has insulted and shunned her, and she wants to get married and settle down. Hoping for this, she tells Ringo, "Would it make us any happier if Luke Plumber were dead? One of his brothers would be after us with a gun. We'd never be safe. I don't want that kind of life, Ringo." Similarly, Charley, an old, peaceful man, tells Lockhart, "Hate's unbecoming in a man like you. On some men it shows." Rio and Louisa have this conversation: LOUISA: RIO:

LOUISA:

RIO:

Y o u think that to kill him will make you a m a n ? I don't know about that, but I k n o w that I've thought about him every d a y for five years, and that w a s the only thing that kept me going. Rio, w e h a v e not m a n y c h a n c e s in life to be happy, and I think that w e h a v e a good one now. W o n ' t you try and forget this? Forget it? Not as long as I breathe.

The priest in Nevada unusual clarity: MAX:

Smith

sums up the basic argument with

There's only one thing i m p o r t a n t to me.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

68 PRIEST: MAX: PRIEST:

MAX: PRIEST:

MAX:

Finding and killing a man. Primitive, hopeless revenge. I'll settle for that. Why, when there's another half of you waiting to be discovered. You also inherited the refined traditions of religion, philosophy, and conscience. I don't understand them words. The difference between right and wrong, and knowing when not to be wrong. If the civilized half of you ever wakes up, Max, and with God's help, you could become a whole man someday. With God's help my leg'LL mend faster than you can say Amen, and I'll be out of here.

8. A representative of society asks the hero to give up his revenge. Despite his determination, the hero always gives it up. Ringo agrees to forget the Plumbers and meet Dallas in Mexico; Lockhart tries to finish "what I c a m e here to do," kill Vic, but he finds he cannot and lets him go; Rio decides to forget Longworth and take Louisa away; and Max, after killing two men, does not complete his revenge but lets Fitch live: 9. The hero gives up his revenge. Inevitably, though, the hero fights and defeats the villains. Because of the Indians, Ringo has to go on to Lordsburg and face the Plumbers. Lockhart fights Dave, captures him, and destroys the rifles before he decides not to avenge his brother. Rio tries to avoid Longworth, but before he can leave, he is captured, put in jail, and finally attacked by Longworth and forced to fight. M a x fights and defeats all three of the men he has sought before he decides not to continue his vendetta: 10. The hero fights the villains. 11. The hero defeats the villains. After the fight the vengeance hero, like the classical hero, gives up his special status and enters society. Like Shane, three of our vengeance heroes reject their status and power by leaving town; Ringo goes to Mexico, Lockhart goes b a c k to Laramie, and Rio goes off to Oregon. In each case we know that they are going to change their ways, enter society, and settle down. Ringo takes Dallas to his ranch, intent upon marriage; Lockhart returns to his position of captain in the army and awaits the arrival of Barbara; and Rio, we are sure, has found meaning and value in Louisa and will return for her and their child to start a new, respectable life. M a x Sand reveals little of his intentions, but he does throw away his gun as

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

69

he rides off, which tells us that he is abandoning the life of a gunman and outlaw. Since this film is a sequel to the film The Carpetbaggers —based on the novel by Harold Robbins—and since Nevada Smith is a character who appears in The Carpetbaggers, those at least who have followed the book know that Max changes his name, goes to Hollywood, and becomes a cowboy movie star: 12. The hero gives up his special status. 13. The hero e n t e r s

society.

This completes the functions for the vengeance variation, and once again, for reference, I will list them all here. 1. The hero is or was a member of society. 2. The villains do harm to the hero and to the society. 3. The society is unable to punish the villains. 4. The hero seeks vengeance. 5. The hero goes outside of society. 6. The hero is revealed to have a special ability. 7. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero; the hero is given special status. 8. A representative of society asks the hero to give up his revenge. 9. The hero gives up his revenge. 10. The hero fights the villains. 11. The hero defeats the villains. 12. The hero gives up his special status. 13. The hero enters society. This narrative structure shares certain similarities with the classical plot, yet differs from it in important respects. These similarities and differences will occupy our full attention later, but in general we can say that in both plots there is movement of an estranged hero into society. Also in both, society is portrayed as weak and inadequate compared to the strength and competence of the heroes and the villains. But in the vengeance plot, society is no longer dependent upon the hero for survival and he is no longer directly involved with it. Rather, he is directly involved with the villains through his desire for revenge. Thus, in the classical plot, the hero tries to avoid the villains, while in the vengeance story he tries to avoid the society. In neither case does he succeed, but the image of society has changed somewhat. No longer is it primarily concerned with churches, schools, and progress; now the image stresses the ideas of forgiveness, marriage, and a peaceful, respectable future. Thus, the coding of the inside society/outside society opposition depends less on a community of settlers than on an attitude of social as opposed to personal values. Though Ringo is an escaped convict,

70

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

he is outside of society primarily because he is intent upon personal retribution for a wrong, regardless of the consequences to himself or others. As he tells Curly, "There ain't nothing keeping me out of Lordsburg." And later he tells Dallas, "I got to go to Lordsburg. . . . There are some things a man just can't run away from." Earlier, his separation from society is indicated when he says to Dallas, "I guess you can't break out of prison and into society in the same day." This comment comes when Mrs. Mallory, Hatfield, and Gatewood have moved away from him and Dallas at lunch because of Dallas's reputation as a prostitute; in this sense, both she and Doc Boone, a derelict and a drunk, are also outside of society. But as the film shows, they are really a part of society since their values are exactly those of society; unlike Ringo, who chooses to reject society, neither shows any commitment to things which separate them from Mrs. Mallory, the true lady of society. Dallas was forced to become a prostitute because, after her parents were killed in a massacre, she "had to survive." She is unhappy and ashamed of her past, and desires desperately to marry and settle down. She demonstrates her social worth by forgiving Mrs. Mallory's constant slights and insults and by continuing to comfort the helpless lady whenever possible; she even sits up all night with the baby. Similarly, Doc Boone is shown to be a good doctor who seems happy but is really sick and miserable when he drinks. He throws away his cigar when it annoys Mrs. Mallory, and he quickly sobers up when she goes into labor. Afterward, he remains sober, cheerful, and reformed. Only Ringo, of the entire group, is separated from society by both circumstances and intention. Lockhart is outside of society because he has given up his home and career, become obsessed by hate, and decided to take the law into his own hands. He is a stranger in town who is neither a "cowhand" nor a "mule-skinner" and who disturbs and frightens Alec Waggoman. Everyone else in town is a known member of society. Barbara is an attractive and domestic store owner; Kate is a middle-aged, honest ranch owner; Vic is Barbara's finace, wears suits, and expects to inherit part of Waggoman's ranch; Dave is Alec's son and also expects to inherit the ranch; and even Alec, though he's "keeping out dirt farmers and fence raisers," pays his debts, wears suits, and finally marries his old neighbor Kate. Rio is clearly outside of society as an escaped convict, a stranger, and an associate of known outlaws. He is whipped, run out of town, and, by living in a fishing village, becomes both figuratively and literally outside of society. On the inside of society are Longworth, Maria (his wife), Louisa, and Lon the deputy, all of whom are clearly identified as respected residents of the town.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

71

Finally, Max Sand leaves his home to become a wanderer, a gunfighter, and an outlaw. Like Rio and the other vengeance heroes, he is driven by hate and plans his revenge with no consideration for society or the law. He is contrasted with no established community, like Lordsburg or Monterey, though in each episode of his revenge he encounters a character who represents social values. First there is Niesa, like Dallas, an unhappy prostitute who returns with Max to her people, the Kiowa; there Max is offered a home and a future, which he refuses. Later, he meets Pilar, who again offers him escape, a home, and a future. Then he meets the priest who represents culture, love, forgiveness, and civilization. The rest of the oppositions are coded very similarly to those of the classical plot. The good people have social values and are nice to others; the bad people generally reject social values for selfish ones and are unpleasant. In Stagecoach, Dallas, Doc, Peacock, Curly, and Buck are friendly and good-natured as well as social-minded. Mrs. Mallory is unpleasant to Dallas and a little stuck-up, but she is mostly scared and later realizes and admits her mistake. Hatfield is a borderline case on the good/bad opposition; he is a back-shooter, antagonistic to Doc and contemptuous of Dallas, yet he is also sincerely gentlemanly and kind to Mrs. Mallory and he sometimes defends both Ringo and Doc. (He is the kind of complicated and ambiguous character who almost never appears in the Western myth, and his appearance gives Stagecoach more depth than the average Western. This kind of character makes the oppositions lose much of their simple meaning and thus much of their force.) Hatfield dies defending the stagecoach, proving his goodness while receiving just punishment for his wrongs. Only Gatewood and the Plumbers are consistently obnoxious and cruel, and both are enemies of society. Gatewood robs the bank, and, as Buck says, "The whole territory would be better off if Luke Plumber was dead," to which Curly replies that Luke's two brothers are just as mean as he is. The location of the hero on the good/bad opposition is an interesting problem. He is obviously good, but he has rejected social values. Ringo does finally give up his vengeance and accept marriage, yet we know he is good long before that. As with the classical hero, we know this because he is friendly and kind. In Ringo's opening scene, when he stops the stage, his first words are "Hi 'ya, Buck, how's your folks?" Inside the coach he compliments Doc, offers water to Dallas, and at a rest stop makes Curly treat Dallas like a lady. His consideration for others tells us he is good regardless of his social values. Similarly, Lockhart is friendly with Barbara, Charley, Kate, and even with Vic after their first fight. He is contrasted with Barbara, Kate, and Charley on the question of social

72

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

values, but he joins them as a representative of goodness. On the other side, Dave is unreservedly bad—he is vicious, cruel, and willing to start a massacre for revenge. Vic is an interesting character in that he is capable of selling guns to the Apaches and of murdering Alec, a man who has been like a father to him, but he can also be friendly to Lockhart and affectionate with Barbara. People like him may exist in real life, but they seldom do in Westerns. Rio, Louisa, Maria, and Modesto are the good guys in One-Eyed Jacks. Louisa and her mother, Maria, both have social values; Louisa will not leave with Rio unless he forgets his desire for revenge, and Maria denounced her husband Longworth when she learns of his crimes. Rio and Modesto, though without social values most of the time, are friendly and good-natured. Rio deceives Louisa, but he regrets it, apologizes, and f r o m then on is sincere and honest. Longworth, Bob, Harvey, and Lon the deputy are the bad guys. Longworth betrays his friend, lies to his wife, insults his stepdaughter, and beats a helpless man half to death. Bob and Harvey, bank robbers like Rio and Modesto, are mean, insulting, and treacherous. Finally, Lon the deputy is sadistic to Rio and foul to Louisa. Like the other heroes, Max Sand does not accept social values, but he is helpful and kind to those w h o do. As in the other Westerns, there is nobody in Nevada Smith w h o both believes in social values and is sometimes nasty and mean to other people. From the McCandlises to the priest, the good people of society are truly good; Cole, Bowdry, and Fitch, on the other hand, carry villainy to its height by skinning a w o m a n alive. I will abbreviate my discussion of the strong/weak opposition, since a demonstration of it would more or less repeat that of function 6, the hero's special ability. Ringo proves his strength in the two fights, while the Plumbers' strength is known from their reputation and from the way everyone quickly leaves the bar w h e n Luke Plumber approaches it. The townspeople are seen to be weak in contrast, since they are afraid of the Plumbers and have been unable to stop their crimes. Lockhart's strength with respect to society is conveniently revealed in the song that is sung at the beginning and end of the film: The man from Laramie; Though he was friendly to everyone he met, Everyone admired the fearless stranger. Danger was this man's specialty: So they never bossed or double-crossed The man from Laramie.

This song expresses Lockhart's strength, friendliness, status, and

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

73

separation from society; in fact, it sums up nicely the nature of the Western hero. Rio shows his strength in two fights and three of four confrontations with Bob and Harvey. In addition, Bob, Harvey, and Longworth are all known gunmen. The town reveals its essential weakness and incompetence by accepting and trusting both the treacherous Longworth and the sadistic Lon. Max demonstrates his strength in the knife fight, the gunfight, and the prison. Cole, Bowdry, and Fitch are expert fighters and outlaws who seem to be able to rob and kill without fear of reprisal from society. Besides not being able to punish these crimes, society is seen to be weak in Nevada Smith because each of its representatives is weak. Niesa's weakness leads her to abandon her tribal ways and become a doubly degraded Indian prostitute; Pilar dies from snakebite while escaping; and the priest, though strong in his convictions, has removed himself from the passions and temptations of daily life. The wilderness/civilization opposition is as prominent in the vengeance as in the classical plot. Like Shane, Ringo's main identification with the wilderness is through powerful visual images. He first appears, in one of the most memorable shots in any Western; standing alone against a background of desert and sandstone monuments; the camera dollies in from a medium shot to a close-up as he swings his rifle and shouts, "Hold it!" to the stage. He seems to rise up out of the desert, sharing both its strength and its loneliness. Later, in the stage, he sits on the floor with his head against a window; thus he is always seen against a background of desert and bluffs, and he is the only character filmed this way. In fact, he is the only character in the film who ever appears alone against the desert, a position he takes again later watching the Indian smoke signals. Lockhart is carefully and uniquely framed against the mountains in some shots, and he is also identified with the wilderness through his half-Indian friend Charley, a character who rarely appears and seems to be forgotten toward the end but who talks only to Lockhart. Similarly, Max Sand not only appears wandering through the desert, but he is half Indian himself, which gives him an immediate association with the wilderness. Rio, like Ringo, is visually identified with the wilderness in a series of spectacular shots of him riding, walking, and sitting alone against a background of the pounding Monterey surf. In conclusion then, the vengeance variation stresses the same oppositions in somewhat the same manner as the classical plot. The narrative structures are different, but the interaction between the hero, society, and villains shows many structural similarities. Both Stagecoach and The Man from Laramie, for example, contain

74

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

subplots that are classical in nature. In the Indian fight in Stagecoach, Ringo, Hatfield, Doc, and Dallas—the rejects of society—save Mrs. Mallory, her baby, Peacock, and Gatewood—the weak but respectable citizens—from destruction and, in return, they are forgiven and accepted as friends. Alec Waggoman—the enemy of the farmer, the owner and tyrant of the town—changes his ways because of the intervention of Lockhart and marries Kate, abandoning his selfish ambition and becoming a friend of the society. These classical subplots are not central, but their existence in the midst of a vengeance story reveals the essential compatibility of these two narrative structures. There is an interesting difference, however, for the vengeance structure rearranges the relationships of the classical characters in a way that moves them one step closer to the relationships of the professional plot. The only intervening step is expressed in the characters and relationships of the transition theme, whose narrative structure does not appear often but underlies some very memorable Westerns. THE TRANSITION THEME

About 1950 three Westerns appeared in which the relation between the hero and society was significantly changed from the estrangement-acceptance pattern we have found in both the classical plot and the vengeance variation. These films—Broken Arrow, High Noon, and Johnny Guitar—share a similar narrative structure, and they can therefore be seen as prototypes of a third basic Western plot. Except for these films and one of the episodes from How the West Was Won, this structure does not occur again in any of the Westerns on the list of top money-makers. However, the new relationships introduced in these films do recur and in the sixties these relationships, only slightly altered, become the central aspect of our fourth and last Western narrative structure, the professional plot. These three films, then, will be interpreted as transitional occurrences of the myth—Westerns that, while remaining in the classical framework, present a significant reorganization of images and narrative and create new meanings that can only be fully expressed outside of the classical structure. In many respects, this transition theme is almost a direct inversion of the classical plot. The hero is inside society at the start and outside society at the end. He still has his exceptional strength and special status; but the society, which was weak and vulnerable in the classical story, is now firmly established and, because of its size, stronger than the hero or the villains. Rather than being forced into fighting against the villains for the society, the hero is forced to fight against society, which is virtually identified with the villains

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

75

of the classical story. Finally, the woman whom the hero loves no longer serves inevitably to reconcile him with the society; instead, she joins him in his fight and his separation from society. The four oppositions that we have found to be central to the Western myth—inside society/outside society, good/bad, strong/ weak, wilderness/civilization—also appear in these films, but there has been an important change in the relation of meaning to image in the opposition of good to bad. While the hero is still "good," the conceptual weight of " b a d " is now carried by the townspeople, or society, rather than by the villains. There are still villains—particularly in High Noon—but they seem to provide only a source of action, not a real threat to anything recognized as "good," as in the other Westerns we have discussed. In Broken Arrow and Johnny Guitar, there are really no villains in the traditional sense, and the hero no longer finds himself protecting a weak society from the threat of a stronger group, the villains. Though it was not the first to appear, we will consider High Noon first since its structure is closest to the classical plot. High Noon High Noon was directed by Fred Zinneman, released in 1952, and starred Gary Cooper as Will Kane and Grace Kelly as Amy Fowler. The hero Will Kane is resigning as sheriff of Hadleyville in order to marry Amy Fowler. Just after the wedding, word is received that Frank Miller, Kane's sworn enemy, has been released from prison and is expected on the noon train, where he will meet three of his old gang who have already arrived in town. Knowing that they have come to kill him, Kane's friends pressure him to leave town quickly with Amy, and he does. But he immediately returns, arguing that it is his job to stay and also that he is safer in town where he can get help to fight Miller. Amy leaves him because, as a Quaker, she does not believe in fighting. Then, when Kane tries to find help, the entire town abandons him and he is left to fight the four men alone. The deputy Harve is the only man in town who is not afraid of Miller, but he refuses to help because he wants to be sheriff and thinks that, if Kane leaves and he as deputy has to face Miller alone, then he will be made sheriff. He even attacks Kane, attempting to beat him up and send him out of town, but Kane wins the fight.' It is noon, the train arrives, and the fight begins. Amy hears the shots, comes running back to help her husband, and together they kill the four men. As the townspeople gather in the street after the fight, Kane removes his sheriff's badge and, in a gesture of contempt, From this brief outline it is clear that the town is the hero's real drops it in the dirt. Then he and Amy ride out of town.

76

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

enemy, not Miller and his men. The villains do not represent an opposing principle, or concept, to that of the hero, only a physical danger to the sheriff; they could be replaced by a train wreck or an avalanche. The conceptual weight of the good/bad opposition is carried by the contrast between the hero and society, the town. By defeating the villains in a gun battle, the hero is really defeating the town in principle, as his last gesture shows. Thus, in an interesting transformation of the basic code of the Western, the "bad" half of the good/bad opposition is shifted from the villains who threaten society to the society that threatens the hero. One important consequence of this transformation is the change that occurs in the conceptual meaning of the inside society/outside society opposition. This distinction is a central aspect of High Noon, since Kane and later Amy are systematically separated from the town, first forcibly and finally by choice. But whereas in the classical plot and the vengeance variation this opposition cuts across the good/bad dichotomy (i.e., the hero and the society were both "good"), in this film and throughout the transition theme there is a virtual identity of "inside society" with "bad" and "outside society" with "good." At the same time, the weakness/strength meaning of the inside/outside opposition begins to shift, for now society is depicted as firmly established and collectively strong, capable as a group of defeating the hero (Kane, abandoned by society, writes his last will and testament). On the level of individuals, however, a major opposition of the classical plot—men with special ability and strength versus ordinary men—continues to be of central importance. We are told that, in the past, only Kane was able to "clean up" Hadleyville by standing up to and defeating Miller and his gang. He was "the best sheriff Hadleyville ever had," and even one of his enemies remarks that Kane has "a lot of guts." These comments designate Kane as a special man, establishing him as the prior hero of a classical plot, the man who saved the town from the villains; this fact will be interesting in itself when we discuss the transition nature of this theme. Finally, the fourth central opposition that we have discussed, the contrast of wilderness to civilization, does not appear in High Noon; its absence from this film can be seen as an unusual exception, since it operates in the other two films. Like the hero of the classical plot, the hero of High Noon has a special status in society because of his ability. But now, rather than being a means of acceptance into society, this ability alienates him from it. The town, in the security and strength that Kane has won for it, betrays him and leaves him to die. His ability saves him, but it separates him irrevocably from society. Amy, his wife, who begins as a symbol of the town's rejection of him, finally accepts

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

77

him and leaves with him; the two of them essentially establish an alternative, better life than that offered by the town. The film, incidentally, makes it very clear that this is not a particularly corrupt town, that it is typical of all society. Just before the judge who condemned Miller runs out on both Kane and the town, he tells the sheriff that he will get no help from the townspeople, citing as proof two other towns—one in ancient Greece and one in the American West—that viciously turned against and destroyed their friends and benefactors. This represents a definite change in attitude toward society from that of the classical plot, and to forestall the rejoinder that it is only one film, let us turn to Broken Arrow and Johnny Guitar. Broken Arrow This film was directed by Delmar Daves, released in 1950, and starred James Stewert as Tom Jefferds and Jeff Chandler as Cochise. It opens with Tom Jefferds riding across the Arizona desert. He is an ex-army officer who is now prospecting for gold. As a narrator, he tells us that there is great danger from Apaches in this country, but so far they have left him alone. He discovers an Apache boy who has been shot and is badly hurt. For a few days Jefferds nurses the boy back to health, then he is doscovered by Apaches and about to be killed when the boy saves him. The Indians spare him, but force him to watch as they kill a party of prospectors who are illegally on Apache land and have taken Apache scalps. Jefferds returns to Tucson where he argues against sending an army to wipe out the Apaches and defends them as more or less justified in killing the prospectors. When the townspeople learn that he was there but was not killed, they begin to distrust him. From his friend Milt, Jefferds learns that the Apaches have stopped the mail and the stagecoach in and out of Tucson. He decides to talk to Cochise, the Indian chief, and after learning their language, he rides into the Apache stronghold. He wins the respect and friendship of Cochise and arranges to have the mail go through unharmed. But back in town, he is accused of being an Indian-lover and a traitor, and he is about to be lynched by the townspeople when the army saves him. Riding again to the Indian camp, he arranges a peace conference between the Apaches and the army, and at the conference a truce is agreed upon. According to the truce, if the peace can last for three months, it will become permanent. After this the stagecoach returns to Tucson and army patrols meet parties of Indians without incident. Jefferds returns to the Apache camp, marries an Indian girl, and settles down.

78

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

But a group of men from the town, citizens and businessmen, set a trap for Jefferds and Cochise and attack them. Telling the chief to escape, Jefferds fights but falls wounded and unconscious. His wife picks up his gun to fight the white men and she is killed. After killing the leaders, Cochise escapes and returns with his warriors to find Jefferds grieving over his wife and savagely threatening revenge. For the sake of peace and the lives of many others, Cochise demands that he forget his vengeance. Later, Milt and others arrive from Tucson with the town's regrets and their promise to Jefferds that they have caught and will punish the remaining ambushers. Then the general tells him that his wife's death has in fact brought the two peoples closer together and will ensure peace. The last shot of the film shows Jefferds riding alone into the desert and telling us as narrator how he came to realize that the loss of his wife made peace a reality. Johnny

Guitar

Johnny Guitar was directed by Nicholas Ray, released in 1954, and starred Sterling Hayden as Johnny Guitar and Joan Crawford as Vienna. The opening scene is in a saloon owned and run by a woman named Vienna. Except for Vienna and the bartender Old Tom, the saloon is empty when the Dancin' Kid and his four friends come in. The Kid begins to show an unreturned interest in Vienna when a stranger arrives who carries a guitar, but wears no guns, and calls himself Johnny Guitar. The Kid and his friends start to ride the stranger; the Kid tells him to leave, but with Vienna's encouragement he stays and refuses to become angry. As the tension rises, a group of townspeople enter, led by Emma Small and John Mclvers. They accuse the Dancin' Kid of having robbed a stage, which the Kid with Vienna's support denies. The townspeople are convinced, however, of the guilt of the Kid and his friends, since they have money with no apparent income. The Kid once again claims that he and his friends live and work on a silver mine, the location of which he refuses to reveal for obvious reasons. The accusers have no proof, and their anger, particularly the anger of Emma Small, turns against Vienna. (Emma is one of the few psychologically complex characters in these Westerns; she shows a psychotic hatred of both the Kid and Vienna that motivates her actions). Vienna is a newcomer to the town; she runs the saloon, which makes her suspect and probably guilty of worse things in the eyes of the town. She is friendly with the Kid, and they suspect she is partners in crime with him. After a vicious attack on Vienna

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

79

and the Kid by Emma Small, the townspeople order both of them out of town, then they leave. The Kid also leaves, but one of his friends, Turkey, who is the youngest, stays behind for a few minutes. He is interested in Vienna and offers her his protection. Johnny Guitar makes a slighting remark on his youth, and Turkey begins to go for his gun. Johnny Guitar grabs a gun from the bar and, in a spectacular display of speed and skill, shoots Turkey's gun off his hip and then shoots it around the floor. Turkey leaves, after which we learn that Johnny and Vienna were lovers five years before and that Johnny is a famous gunfighter who is trying to change. After his attack on Turkey, however, Vienna is convinced he cannot change and tells him to leave the next day. Later, the Dancin' Kid and his friends decide that they might as well leave town since their mine is worked out; but they also decide that, since the town already thinks they are bandits, they might as well become bandits and rob the bank. The next day Vienna, having no intention of leaving town, rides to the bank with Johnny to make her daily deposit. While she is in the bank and the safe door is open for her deposit, the Kid and his gang come in to rob it. They take the money and leave, and Vienna rides back to her saloon with Johnny. He is worried about her, but she does not need or want his help and tells him to leave, and he does. Fearing trouble, she pays off her help and waits alone. The townspeople arrive, again led by Emma Small and John Mclvers, and accuse her of being part of the robbery; she denies it, but the townspeople produce Turkey, whom they have captured. John Mclvers promises Turkey his freedom, instead of hanging, if he will admit that Vienna was part of the gang. Afraid, Turkey gives in and claims that she is guilty. At this, the townspeople decide to lynch both Vienna and Turkey in spite of their promise, and Emma Small triumphantly sets fire to the saloon. From the back room, Old Tom the bartender attempts to rescue Vienna, but he is killed by a citizen. At a nearby bridge Turkey is lynched, but when Vienna—with a rope around her neck—has her horse slapped out from under her, Johnny Guitar on the bridge cuts the rope and she rides away. The townspeople pursue her, but Johnny finds her first and they get away. They have no horses, so they join the Dancin' Kid and his gang at their hideout in a hidden valley accessible only by riding through a waterfall. Later, the townspeople also find this valley by following Turkey's horse. In the hideout the Kid learns that Johnny is a well-known gunfighter and abruptly changes his attitude towards him, showing much more respect. One of the Kid's gang decides to kill Johnny and the Kid. He attacks Johnny, who demonstrates his skill by killing him.

80

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

Just then, the townspeople attack. Emma shoots the Kid between the eyes. Then she and Vienna have a private gun battle. Emma wounds Vienna, but Vienna kills Emma. After this, John Mclvers leads a subdued group of citizens out of the valley, and then Johnny and Vienna emerge from the waterfall alone and together. In both these films, Broken Arrow and Johnny Guitar, the ordinary citizens of the towns, the peace-loving settlers and bringers of civilization of the classical plot, have taken over the usual role of the villains. Typically, the hero had to fight the villains to protect the principles of "good"—truth, justice, honor, individual life and dignity—but now, in order to protect these same principles, he must fight society. In Broken Arrow, the people of Tucson attempt to lynch Jefferds because he respects the Apaches and attempts to make peace with them; later, he is treacherously attacked, wounded, and his wife is killed by some of the town's leading citizens. The film ends by telling us, essentially, that in order for the white society to learn to live at peace with the Indians, it was necessary for that society to kill the hero's wife, a completely innocent girl. Similarly, in Johnny Guitar, Vienna is honest, independent, proud, and she defends the innocent Kid. As a result, she is threatened, attacked, almost lynched, and has her business destroyed by the respectable citizens of the town; the Kid and his friends are wrongly accused, threatened, driven to crime, and then killed by these same citizens. If it is accepted that the typical hero is a man of principle and unusual fighting strength, then we can see Vienna as the hero of principle and Johnny as the hero of strength. T h e y are both attacked by the town for being relative strangers, unconventional, and independent. In the classical plot these qualities made the society distrust the hero, but his principles and strength at last won his acceptance; in these films and in High Noon, these qualities make the hero hated by the society, and only his unusual strength saves him from their wrath. The combining of the villain and society roles reinforces and magnifies the inside society/outside society opposition. At the end of Broken Arrow, Jefferds rides alone into the desert, having rejected both his own white society and that of the Indians. At the end of Johnny Guitar, Vienna and Johnny are alone in the wilderness, having been decisively separated from society. In both cases, the heroes are at first closely associated with a town—Jefferds is known and liked in Tucson, Vienna is a successful businesswoman—only to be driven out by a united effort of the townspeople; and in both cases, this opposition is coded, as in the classical plot, by the distinction between the "trail" clothes of the cowboy and the more formal attire of the town. Jefferds wears the wide-brimmed hat, vest,

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

81

bandanna, and checkered shirt of the cowboy, while the leaders of the townspeople attacking him wear the suit or jacket and tie of the town dweller and businessman. This coding is even more apparent and suggestive in Johnny Guitar, since the posse-vigilantes all appear in look-alike tailored jackets or overcoats, which in context have the effect of uniforms and identify the group as the town's citizen-soldiers. Johnny Guitar and the Dancin' Kid and his gang, by contrast, wear standard western gear, while Vienna, who is contrasted to the drab, proper Emma Small, first appears in slacks, then in an elegant evening dress, and finally in a man's shirt and pants. Perhaps this distinction between western "trail" clothes and the more formal jacket and tie of the town dweller can also be interpreted as a coding of the wilderness/civilization opposition, for in the context of the Western myth the vest-bandanna attire of the cowboy is associated with the outdoors. It is not a sufficient coding, since we have met many men in the classical plot who wore the western outfit and yet belonged to the pole of civilization—e.g., Buck, the sheriff in Stagecoach, Torrey and Chris in Shane—but in these two films this interpretation seems to work, since there are other levels of coding of this same opposition that correspond quite closely with no overlap to the contrast in clothes. Broken Arrow, for example, is full of shots of Jefferds riding alone through the the sands and rocks of the desert; the film closes with a distant image of him riding into and being absorbed by the open land. Also, when he first rides into the desert stronghold of Cochise, there are many close and distant views of him against the richly colored canyons. In another code that is commonly used, Jefferds is identified with the wilderness by his friendship with and the knowledge of the Indians; this narrative association, like his association with the land through images, separates him from every other white man in the film. In Johnny Guitar the wilderness/civilization opposition, though less apparent, is also important and perhaps even more powerfully conveyed by the difference in dress. The Dancin' Kid and his gang live in a beautiful hidden valley, which can be reached only by riding through a waterfall. In town, only Vienna knows about the valley, and at the climax of the film the Kid, Vienna, and Johnny attempt to defend the valley against the townspeople who want to destroy both them and the valley (through silver mining). In these scenes, Vienna changes into the shirt and pants of the Dancin' Kid; the opposition of clothes reinforces the opposition of locations (town versus valley), for the defenders join the beautiful natural imagery of the valley in contrast and opposition to the bitter hostility of

82

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

the seemingly uniformed representatives of society and civilization. Thus, three oppositions are collapsed into one grand conflict, as the symbols of the good, wilderness, and the outsiders are combined into one group—Johnny, Vienna, and the Kid—for a final fight with the symbols of the bad, civilization, and society. A s a last and perhaps most forceful coding of the wilderness/civilization distinction, Johnny and Vienna, all alone, emerge from under the waterfall, waist-deep in the stream, having been purified by the water and forests of nature and baptized into a new life and strength apart from the viciousness of society. The opposition of special men to ordinary men exists in these films with virtually no change from the classical plot. Johnny Guitar is a famous and feared gunfighter; on at least two occasions, once completely gratuitously, we are given a demonstration of his ability. When the Dancin' Kid learns the gunfighter's real identity, his attitude toward him changes from ridicule to respect. In Broken Arrow, Jefferds is not a gunfighter, and he is not portrayed as having any special ability with a gun; yet he is a special man, willing to ride alone into the Apache camp despite everyone's warnings of probable torture and certain death. He wins the respect and friendship of Cochise, the greatest Apache warrior, a brilliant general and leader of his people whom all other white men fear. As a demonstration of his ability, Jefferds is attacked in his sleep by a jealous Indian whom he successfully disarms and defeats. Cochise is also a man of special ability, but he has little or no symbolic importance; he functions primarily as a representative of the Apaches and as a means to characterize Jefferds as a man of the wilderness and of strength. Now if we turn from the oppositions to the narrative relationships between the characters in these two films, we notice their structural similarities to High Noon, and the differences between these films and those based on the classical plot. First, in both Broken Arrow and Johnny Guitar the hero, like Will Kane, is originally associated with the town that eventually drives him away. Broken Arrow opens with Jefferds in the desert, but he soon tells us as narrator that he has been sent for and is on his way to Tucson, where he is well known, has an established place in a boardinghouse, and has a close set of friends, including an apparent girlfriend. Johnny Guitar is not identified with the town, but Vienna is, since she owns her own business, has a bank account, and knows everyone in town. Thus, in both films the hero is initially inside a society that he later has to fight; and if we include High Noon, in which the hero does not actually fight the townspeople, we can say that in all three films the hero rejects and is rejected by the society to which he

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

83

belongs. He moves in the course of the narrative from inside to outside of society, which is a clear reversal of the movement of the hero in the classical plot. The classical Western hero is finally accepted into society through the use of his special ability to defend the weak society from the strong villains. In Broken Arrow and Johnny Guitar, the hero is rejected and attacked by the town because he uses his special ability to defend a weaker group from a strong society. Jefferds is shot, widowed, and almost lynched as a consequence of his verbal and physical defense of the Apaches from the attacks of the people of Tucson. While the Apaches are certainly not portrayed as weak individually, the film makes it clear, through the words of Jefferds, that if they continue to fight the white men, they will be defeated and their culture destroyed. As a group in conflict with white American society, they are weak; and when Jefferds, as a typical hero, comes to their defense, he is attacked by white society. This structure is exactly that of the classical plot, except that now the hero joins and protects the enemies of society and society itself takes the role of the villain. Similarly, in Johnny Guitar, Vienna befriends and helps the Dancin' Kid in his fight with the town. She refuses to let Emma Small and the posse turn her against the Kid and later she is willing to hang rather than tell them where he is hiding. After her escape, she and Johnny join the Kid and his gang for the final fight with the townspeople. The citizens as a group are stronger than the Kid and his gang, just as they are stronger than Vienna and Johnny; but the two heroes fight them much more effectively than does the Kid. Emma Small and the posse hang Turkey, but Johnny frees Vienna. Later, Emma kills the Kid, but Vienna kills Emma. Thus, once again, we have the individually strong hero(es) attempting to defend a weaker group outside society from a much stronger group composed of members of society. In High Noon, there is also a sense in which the hero defends a weaker group. Kane returns to Hadleyville to face Miller because he feels he will be safer there with his friends, also because he feels it is his job. As the film progresses, it becomes clear that if Kane leaves or is killed, Miller will again take over the town. The judge and Miller's ex-girlfriend leave town out of fear; the men of the saloon eagerly await Miller's return and, with him, the return of a wide-open town. Thus, a significant aspect of Kane's return is his effort to protect the town from Miller, and, as it turns out, from itself. This film begins with the typical structure of the classical plot: the hero attempts to use his special strength to defend a weak town from strong villains. But the town turns against him, and he is forced to defend himself from their betrayal. He must fight the

84

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

villains alone, against heavy odds, though by defeating them he is also protecting the town. Thus we can say that in all three films the hero attempts to use his special ability to protect a weaker group from the threat of a stronger group, as in the classical plot; but now this effort by the hero results in his being rejected and threatened by society and in his own eventual rejection of that society. When he leaves society, he takes a woman with him. In each of the three films, the hero is accompanied in his self-imposed exile by a woman. In High Noon and Johnny Guitar, the women make as definite a break with their society as do the men; Amy abandons her Quaker principles to fight for her husband, and Vienna, sharing the hero's role, kills the leader of the attack against her. In Broken Arrow, Jefferd's wife is already outside society—one of the town's enemies—and he finally joins her and the Apaches. She is killed, which drives him away even from the Indians, just as the other heroes are left outside all organized societies. In each film the woman joins and supports the hero's separation from civilization. She is no longer symbolic of the good and decent in society, as in the classical plot, nor is her love symbolic of the hero's acceptance into society. As in the classical plot, her love is a symbol of the hero's worth and goodness, yet it is now given because of his ability to fight against rather than for society. In the two films where the women survive, we have a definite sense that the heroic couple are better than society; they will give each other sufficient strength and support to continue their lives in a rich, loving relationship that is uncontaminated by the compromise, conformity, and cowardice of society. Jefferds is left alone, but, as he tells us over the image of him riding into the desert, his thoughts of his wife and her role in bringing peace will comfort him in his wanderings. The establishment of a self-contained heroic couple outside of society can be seen as an important stage in the transition from the classical to the professional plot. The most fundamental transformation is probably the change of society, as a moral sign, from the "good" pole of the opposition to the "bad." As a result, the same opposition of images that represent "good" and "bad"—hero and society—can now also represent "inside" and "outside" society as well as "wilderness" and "civilization." This new ability of the myth to convey the same meanings with fewer images, and thus to give these images greater conceptual weight, permits a more simple but more intense narrative structure, basically a two-party rather than a three-party conflict. The movement of the classical hero from outside of society to inside is transformed into a movement from inside to outside. The woman,

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

85

who was simply an aspect of society in the classical plot, now becomes a real heroine, fighting with the hero and sharing his exile. It is perhaps somewhat impertinent to attach this much significance to three films. But, as we shall see in the next section, many of these changes appear in the professional plot, which is further removed from the classical plot than the transition theme but, in fact, seems to assume as a basic context the logical consequences of the transition theme. If we can say that the hero of these three films is the hero of the classical plot a few years later, after the town he saved has become secure and self-satisfied, then the hero of the professional plot is this same hero after he has disassociated himself from the society he once protected. The transition theme occupies a crucial if brief place in the development of the Western myth from the thirties to the seventies, from Cimarron to Butch Cassidy. Chronologically, these three films as well as the last big classical Westerns appear in the early fifties. Broken Arrow was r e l e a s e d in 1950 a n d B e n d of the River in 1951; High Noon in 1952

and Shane in 1953; in 1954, both Johnny Guitar and The Far Country were released. After this, both the classical plot and the transition theme virtually disappear from the list of top money-making Westerns, as the professional plot, with Rio Bravo in 1958, begins its almost complete domination throughout the sixties to the seventies. A question remains as to why the transition theme, at least as a successful version of the myth, was so short-lived. If it was truly an important stage in the development of the Western myth, should there not be more instances of it? I cannot say precisely why there were not more films with this structure; but after an examination of the professional plot, I will put the entire sequence of Westerns into a more general social context, and then the significance of the brief transition theme should become clearer. THE PROFESSIONAL PLOT

In many ways, the professional plot is similar to the classical plot: the hero is a gunfighter, outside of society, whose main task is to fight the villains who are threatening parts of society. But the relations between the different characters of the story have changed significantly. The heroes are now professional fighters, men willing to defend society only as a job they accept for pay or for love of fighting, not from commitment to ideas of law and justice. As in the classical plot, society is portrayed as weak, but it is no longer seen as particularly good or desirable. The members of society are not unfair and cruel, as in the transition theme; in the professional plot they are simply irrelevant. The social values of love, marriage,

86

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

family, peace, and business are things to be avoided, not goals to be w o n . A s a result, the relations of the heroes, or of the villains, with society are minimal. S o c i e t y exists as a ground for the conflict, an e x c u s e for fighting, rather than as a serious option as a w a y of life. T h e f o c u s of the p r o f e s s i o n a l plot is on the conflict b e t w e e n the heroes and the villains. T y p i c a l l y , both are professionals, and their fight b e c o m e s a contest of ability that is significant for its o w n sake. A c o n c e r n w i t h a fight b e t w e e n e q u a l men of special ability is an aspect of all Westerns, yet o n l y in this particular version of the myth does the fight itself, d i v o r c e d f r o m all its social and ethical implications, b e c o m e of such central importance. T h e final gunfight that c l i m a x e s such films as Shane or Stagecoach has become a battle e x t e n d i n g throughout the film w i t h skirmishes, strategies, and c o m m a n d e r s . H o w the fight is fought is n o w the crucial issue, since the fight itself generates the v a l u e s that replace the values of the society in the myth. Corresponding to the t r a n s f o r m a t i o n f r o m a climactic fight bet w e e n individuals to a battle b e t w e e n small armies is the transformation f r o m the lone hero fighting his w a y into society to a g r o u p of heroes, e a c h w i t h special fighting ability, w h o c o m b i n e for the battle. T h i s group of strong men, f o r m e d as a fighting unit, c o m e s to exist independently of and apart f r o m society. E a c h m a n possesses a special status b e c a u s e of his ability, and their shared status and skill b e c o m e the basis for m u t u a l respect and affection. T h u s , the group of heroes supplies the a c c e p t a n c e and r e i n f o r c e m e n t for one another that the society p r o v i d e d for the lone hero of the classical plot. T h i s change in the f o c u s of respect and a c c e p t a n c e naturally corresponds to an important change in the qualities or v a l u e s that are being respected and accepted. T h e social v a l u e s of justice, order, and p e a c e f u l domesticity h a v e been r e p l a c e d by a clear c o m m i t m e n t to strength, skill, e n j o y m e n t of the battle, and m a s c u l i n e c o m p a n i o n ship. T h e interaction of the h e r o e s is based on a mutual a c c e p t a n c e of highly u n f a v o r a b l e odds and a c o m m o n coolness, humor, and w i t in the face of danger. A l t h o u g h these men are g e n e r a l l y fighting for some social cause, as a group they separate t h e m s e l v e s f r o m society and h a v e virtually no contact w i t h it. T h e fight itself and, more importantly, the c o m r a d e s h i p that the fight creates p r o v i d e sufficient justification for their actions. Heroes in the p r o f e s s i o n a l plot h a v e little or no interest in w o m e n e x c e p t insofar as the w o m e n b e c o m e part of the group. W h e n one of the h e r o e s does take an interest in a w o m a n , she does not offer an alternative set of values—in fact, she usually takes part in the fighting—but she p r o v i d e s further proof of his strength and masculinity. T h i s change of v a l u e s is perhaps most apparent at the end of these films, w h e n the fight

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

87

is over. There is no sense of the heroes having w o n a new, peaceful way of life. Instead of marrying and settling down, they stay together as a group in order to maintain the relationships created by the fight. In some sense their victory has made a new and meaningful life possible, but this new life involves a special masculine society separate from, independent of, and a little better than the ordinary society of families and businesses. W e can use this general outline of the plot to consider briefly how the professional Western relates to the transition theme. Society in the transition theme is strong and bad; in the professional plot it is weak and irrelevant. In both cases, the values of society are rejected by the heroes, w h o define themselves in opposition to them. The disenchantment with the society of the classical plot begins in the transition theme, and the professional plot provides an alternative set of values to fill the vacuum. In the transition theme, the heroes by rejecting society are forced into an independent group—or couple—based on respect and affection. This is similar to the professional plot, with the difference that the group is a man and a woman in the former case and a group of men in the latter. The women in the transition theme fight with their men, as do the women in the professional plot. So, once again, there seems to be a progression, both logical and historical, from the woman as representing a social alternative to fighting and the hero's way of life, through the woman as fighting with the hero, joining and supporting his w a y of life, to the woman as irrelevant to the heroes who form a masculine group based on their own values of skill and strength. The autonomous couple at the end of the transition manages to connect the social couple of the classical plot with the masculine group of the professional plot. It is from this perspective that the transition theme seems to have a significance beyond that appropriate to a form derived from only three really successful occurrences. Later, w e will consider this possible progression with more care. The narrative functions that comprise the structure of the professional plot are more concerned with characterizing the heroes than describing standard plot developments. The symbolic emphasis is no longer on the relationship of the hero to society but on the relationships of the heroes among themselves. The emphasis—the common core of the professional stories—is on the group of heroes and their prolonged battle; thus, the motivation for this battle, so important in the classical and vengeance plots, is now far less important. For this reason, the stories of these professional Westerns seem to vary much more widely than those of any previous set of films. When I first approached the list of top-grossing films, even after

88

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

I had characterized the classical and vengeance films, the wide variation in the stories of the sixties made that period seem to represent an anarchic breakdown of a previously well-structured myth, just as the tonalities of modern music seem, on first hearing at least, compared to the harmonies of the classical composers. I recognized the implicit structure when I realized that all the films of the sixties, with only four exceptions (excluding three satires), had one thing in common, which had virtually never appeared before in Westerns—there was more than one hero. More than one character is alive and happy at the end, is fast on the draw and lovable; the multiple heroes get together and like each other. This is such a major change that, when I began looking for a structure based on this group of heroes, it soon became apparent. To illustrate this structure I have chosen five popular but quite different films—Rio Bravo, The Professionals, True Grit, The Wild Bunch, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—which I shall review in chronological order. Rio

Bravo

Rio Bravo was the first Howard Hawks Western since Red River. It was released in 1959 and starred John Wayne as Chance, Dean Martin as Dude, Angie Dickinson as Feathers, Walter Brennan as Stumpy, and Ricky Nelson as Colorado. Dude, dirty and cowering, needs liquor so badly that he is about to reach into a spittoon to retrieve a gold piece thrown there by the mocking Joe Burdett. Suddenly John Chance, the sheriff, kicks the spittoon away, glares at Dude with disgust, and walks menacingly toward Joe. From behind, Dude hits Chance with a stick and knocks him out. Joe laughs, and Dude swings on him; but Joe's friends stop Dude and hold him while Joe beats him. After many blows, another man touches Joe's arm to make him stop, and Joe draws his gun and kills the man. A few minutes later, in another saloon, Chance walks in, dazed and bloody, holding a rifle and telling Joe he's under arrest. One of Joe's friends gets the drop on Chance from behind; but Dude comes in, steals a gun from another man's holster, and shoots the gun from the first man's hand, telling Chance to do what he pleases. When Joe attempts to draw, Chance hits him with the rifle; then he and Dude take Joe off to jail. All this happens in the first ten minutes. The next day, Pat Wheeler brings a wagon train of freight into town, only to be stopped at the edge of town by Dude, who is now wearing a gun and a badge. Wheeler, who recognizes Dude as the town drunk, is puzzled by his being sober and wearing a badge

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

89

and wonders why he was stopped first by Burdett's men and now by Dude. They go into town and Chance, an old friend of Wheeler's, tells him that Nathan Burdett—Joe's brother and the large rancher in the area—has the town "so bottled up that I can't get Joe out or help in." Wheeler introduces Chance to Colorado, a young gunfighter who's riding guard for the wagon train. Then Chance reveals that against all of Burdett's men, he has only Dude, a drunk, and Stumpy, a lame old man, for help. That night in the saloon, Wheeler is a little derisive toward Dude, and Chance tells him that, before Dude was betrayed by a woman two years back and became a drunk, he was one of the best men with a gun he had ever worked with. Wheeler offers himself and his drivers as help, but Chance turns them down because Wheeler is "not good enough" and the drivers would only be "well-meaning amateurs, most of them worried about their wives and kids" against Burdett's "thirty or forty men, all professionals, only . . . worried about earning their pay." Wheeler then suggests Colorado—"he's good, real good"—and Chance asks the gunfighter if he wants to help. Colorado says he'd rather mind his own business. After this, Chance meets Feathers, a lady gambler who's wanted on a handbill because of her husband, a crooked gambler. She tells Chance her husband's dead; he tells her to get out of town on the next stage. A few minutes later, Wheeler is shot and killed in the street because he offered to help the sheriff. Chance and Dude go after the man who did it, chasing him into a saloon full of Burdett's men. They go in to get him with Dude, the drunk, taking the lead; inside, they can't find the killer, and Dude is ridiculed. At the last moment, though, Dude locates and kills the man. Later, at the jail, Colorado offers to join as a deputy in order to avenge Wheeler, and Chance refuses. That night, Feathers protects Chance with a shotgun, without his knowledge, while he sleeps. The next day, Burdett and his men come to town to see Joe. Dude, on guard, shoots and breaks the reins of one of Burdett's gunfighters as he tries to pass without surrendering his guns. In the jail, Chance tells Burdett that if he attempts to rush the jail, Stumpy will kill Joe. Later that night, Dude starts to break down under the pressure while Chance flirts some more with Feathers, who again tries to protect him with a shotgun. The next morning, at the edge of town, Dude is surprised and captured and three men catch Chance unprepared. Colorado, showing his ability, saves Chance, who then rescues Dude. After this, Colorado joins the group in the jail, and Dude, upset and nervous, decides to leave. He suddenly regains his nerve, however, and Chance returns his clothes and guns from his old days as a deputy. Later, in the hotel, Chance and Dude are

90

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

captured and Chance is forced to take three men to the jail to get Joe. Stumpy, however, understands the situation, and he and Colorado kill the three men. At the hotel Dude is taken, and later Burdett offers to exchange Dude for Joe. Chance agrees, and he and Colorado go out to make the exchange. As Dude walks past Joe, he tackles him and knocks him out in a fight. Colorado throws Dude a gun, Stumpy arrives, and then these three and Chance shoot it out with Burdett and his men, who are in a warehouse. Using dynamite, which Stumpy throws and Dude and Chance shoot in the air, they defeat and capture Burdett and his gunfighters. Later, they all sit around in the jail laughing and kidding one another. Chance goes to visit Feathers, Colorado watches the prisoners, and Dude and Stumpy take a walk through town. The

Professionals

The Professionals was directed by Richard Brooks, released in 1966, and starred Burt Lancaster as Dalworth, Lee Marvin as Rico, Robert Ryan as Ehrengard, W o o d y Strode as Jake, Claudia Cardinale as Mrs. Grant, and Jack Palance as Raza. It was filmed in Death Valley, Nevada, and along the Mexican border. Joe Grant, a wealthy rancher, hires Rico ("weapons expert and tactician"), Dalworth (explosives expert), Ehrengard (horse expert), and Jake ("specialist with rifle, rope, and longbow") to do a special job. His wife Maria has been kidnapped by Jesus Raza, a Mexican bandit, and taken to his hideout in Mexico, "a fortress," according to Grant. To rescue his wife, "it would take a battalion at least a month; but, a few daring men, specialists, . . . could do it in one bold, swift, stroke." Raza, it turns out, is not really a Mexican bandit, but a Mexican revolutionary whom Rico and Dalworth know well and used to ride with. The four men start across the desert to Raza's hideout. Soon, they are confronted by ten Mexicans, probably Raza's man, and in a fight the four Americans win, killing the others. They proceed, and Dalworth is sent ahead to scout. He is captured by three Mexicans, hung by his heels, and is about to be killed when Rico and Jake save him. Since they do not want to make any noise, which might alert Raza, Jake kills two of the men with a bow and arrow, and Rico kills the other with a machete. Dalworth rigs a canyon with dynamite for their escape, and they go on. From a mountaintop they watch Raza and his men attack a Mexican troop train and execute all the troops. Dalworth tells us that these troops are mercenary American killers, hired by the Mexican government, who have tortured and slaughtered many Mexicans, including Rico's wife.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

91

That night, they locate the hideout and m a k e their plans. They find a goatherd outside the c a m p w h o is friendly to Mrs. Grant and helps them. T h e next day they tell him they will attack the following day, but, not really trusting him, they attack that night, leaving Ehrengard with the goatherd and the horses. Following elaborate plans, Dalworth rigs the water tower to explode, a n d on a signal Jake starts " b o m b i n g " the c a m p with dynamite tied to arrows. In the c o n f u s i o n Rico a n d Dalworth take Mrs. Grant. A s they do, however, they realize that she is willing and even eager to go to bed with Raza. Knocking R a z a out, they grab her, but she strongly resists being " r e s c u e d . " Dalworth w a n t s to kill the unconscious Raza, his old friend, but Rico stops him. Carrying Mrs. Grant, they fight their w a y through R a z a ' s men to a h a n d c a r on the railroad tracks and escape. But the goatherd h a s betrayed them, and Raza's men have captured E h r e n g a r d and wait for the others. When they arrive on the handcar, E h r e n g a r d w a r n s them, and using Mrs. Grant as a shield, since it is n o w o b v i o u s that R a z a ' s men are trying to rescue her, they again escape. With R a z a and his men in close pursuit, the four men and their captive ride back through the mined canyon a n d b l o w it up, thereby forcing R a z a to go around. Later as they rest, Maria e x p l a i n s that she w a s born in that village, R a z a is her man, and she w a s sold by her father to Joe Grant. After she e s c a p e d back to Raza, they tried to extort money f r o m Grant to help the revolution. S h e w o n d e r s why Rico and Dalworth h a v e betrayed the revolution and their friends, a n d they e x p l a i n that they are doing it for money—$10,000 apiece. Dalworth s a y s he w o u l d h a v e killed Raza, his close friend, for money. The next day, they realize they cannot make it to the border before Raza and his men catch them. S o Dalworth stays behind in a narrow canyon to delay pursuit while the others go on with Mrs. Grant. In the canyon, Dalworth kills three or four of the M e x i c a n s , leaving only Raza, his old friend, and Chiquita, R a z a ' s lieutenant and Dalworth's old lover. At this point, each hidden behind a rock, Dalworth starts talking, and R a z a and Chiquita realize for the first time w h o it is they are fighting. T h e y e x c h a n g e r e m e m b r a n c e s , talk over the revolution and old times; then the M e x i c a n s attack, and Dalworth w o u n d s R a z a and kills Chiquita, kissing her at her request before she dies. Dalworth catches up to his friends at the border, and they realize that he has brought along the w o u n d e d Raza. Maria e m b r a c e s her lover, but Grant arrives and orders his men to kill him. Dalworth and Rico stop him, decide to give u p the $10,000 each, and send Maria back to her village with Raza. Then Dalworth, Rico, Ehrengard, and Jake—the four specialists—ride off together back to Mexico.

92

STRUCTURE OF THE W E S T E R N FILM

True Grit True Grit was directed by Henry Hathaway and released in 1969. It starred Kim Darby as Mattie Ross, Glen Campbell as LaBoeuf, and John Wayne, w h o w o n his only Academy A w a r d in this role, as Rooster Cogburn. Frank Ross, of Yell County, Arkansas, is killed by T o m Chaney, his hired hand, in the streets of Fort Smith. Fourteen-year-old Mattie Ross travels to Fort Smith to arrange for her father's burial. She is precocious and determined as she settles her father's affairs, finds a place to stay, and out-trades a horse trader. She looks for a marshall to find and arrest T o m Chaney, and she is told that Rooster Cogburn is the meanest. Cogburn is an old, one-eyed marshall with a reputation as a killer and a drunk. W h i l e he gets drunk, Mattie offers him $100 to find Chaney; he accepts, and she gives him $25 as a retainer. That night at her boarding house, she meets LaBoeuf, a Texas ranger who is also looking for Chaney for killing a Texas senator. He flirts with her a little and suggests that they join forces, but she haughtily refuses him, saying she wants Chaney to hang in Fort Smith, not in Texas. The next morning, she finds that LaBoeuf has found Cogburn and offered him half the $2000 reward posted in Texas if he will help LaBoeuf take Chaney back to Texas. Cogburn has accepted, arguing that Chaney will be just as dead in Texas as in Arkansas; but Mattie, furious, denounces both men and demands her $25 back. But Cogburn has already spent the money, so she angrily walks out. Chaney has been seen in the Indian territory with Lucky Ned Pepper and his gang, so the next morning Cogburn and LaBoeuf leave for the territory. Mattie meets them at the ferry and insists on going with them, but they hire a man to take her back to town. She escapes from this man and swims with her horse across the river, causing Cogburn to smile and remark, "She reminds me of me." Across the river the two men try to ride off and leave her, then try to drive her back; but finally they decide to let her stay, or rather Cogburn decides and forces LaBoeuf to accept it. Cogburn and LaBoeuf are constantly belittling each other's horse, guns, and ability. They find two of Ned Pepper's men in a cabin. One tells them that they are waiting for Ned and his gang; but the other, to keep him from talking, attacks him with a knife. Cogburn shoots the second man, and both men die. That night, they wait on the hills overlooking the cabin for Ned to return. Ned and his gang come in the morning, but LaBoeuf shoots prematurely and most of them escape. Cogburn gets mad, but they take the dead men to a trading post and start off again. That night, Cogburn gets drunk and falls

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

93

off his horse. The next morning, Mattie goes to the river alone, is captured by Tom Chaney and taken to Ned Pepper's camp. Ned tells Cogburn that he will kill the girl unless they ride off, which they do. Then Pepper leaves Mattie with Chaney, and he and the three other men ride off. But Cogburn and LaBoeuf have circled around, and LaBoeuf rescues Mattie while Cogburn confronts Ned and his men in a clearing below. While Mattie and LaBoeuf watch, Cogburn twirls his rifle and rides shooting into the outlaws. He kills three and mortally wounds Ned Pepper, but he is pinned under his horse and the dying Ned rides slowly toward him to kill him. LaBoeuf, from the ridge, kills the outlaw with an extraordinary shot with his big Sharps rifle, the gun Cogburn had ridiculed. As Mattie and LaBoeuf walk back from the cliff, Chaney, whom they had forgotten, jumps out and smashes LaBoeufs head with a rock. Mattie pulls a pistol and shoots Chaney, but the recoil knocks her into a deep hole filled with rattlesnakes. She is bitten by a snake, Chaney crawls to the edge of the hole to shoot her, but Cogburn rides up and kills him. Then the marshall descends into the hole on a rope, kills the snakes, grabs Mattie, but cannot pull himself up. LaBoeuf, whom they thought was dead, staggers to his feet, ties the rope to a horse, pulls them out, then drops dead. With Mattie in his arms, Cogburn rides a horse to death, walks across miles of hills, steals a buckboard, and finally gets her to a doctor. Later, in Fort Smith, Mattie's lawyer pays Cogburn the remaining $75 of their contract, gives him a $200 bonus, and tells him that the girl is still gravely ill. Months later, Cogburn is visiting a very healthy Mattie on her mother's farm. He tells her that he took LaBoeuf to Texas to be buried in his ranger suit and collected the reward on Chaney. She offers him a burial place in their family cemetery, a plot next to her's. He decides to wait awhile, and rides off. The Wild

Bunch

The Wild Bunch was directed by Sam Peckinpah and released in 1969. It starred William Holden as Pike Bishop, Ernest Borgnine as Dutch, Robert Ryan as Deke Thornton, Edmund O'Brien as Sykes, and Warren Oates and Ben Johnson as Lyle and Tector Gorch. Pike Bishop and his gang ride into a small Texas border town. They enter the bank and hold it up. On the roof of the building opposite is Harrigan, a railroad official, Thornton, an ex-con, and a group of dumb, vicious bounty hunters hired by Harrigan to kill Bishop and his men. Down the street comes an unexpected temperance parade. The outlaws discover the hidden ambush and, waiting

94

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

for the parade, they rush into the street. A general slaughter follows in which Thornton sights but hesitates and does not shoot Bishop. Finally, Bishop and five others of his gang escape, leaving behind many dead outlaws and citizens shot indiscriminately by the bounty hunters, who then gleefully rob their bodies. Harrigan is angry because Bishop and the important outlaws (that is, the ones bringing the highest rewards) got away. We learn that Thornton is an old friend and partner of Bishop's, but he was captured and Harrigan has offered him freedom if he catches and kills Bishop. Thornton asks for better men than the riffraff bounty hunters, but Harrigan refuses and gives him thirty days or back to jail. Meanwhile, outside of town, Bishop kills and leaves one member of the gang who w a s badly wounded. Then he, Dutch, Angel, and the Gorch brothers cross the border and meet Sykes, who has fresh horses. Tension arises when the Gorch boys insult Angel, the Mexican, but Bishop backed by Dutch and Sykes makes them back down. Then they discover they were tricked in the bank and, instead of gold, they stole metal washers. Broke, they go to Angel's village in Mexico, which has just been raided by vicious Mexican troops under General Mapache. The troops killed and raped in the village, and, to Angel's distress, his fiancee went with the general as his whore. The gang is fed and entertained, and the next day they leave. They go to Mapache's headquarters where Angel, seeing his girl in the general's lap, shoots her. Following a tense moment in which he is surrounded by Mexican troops ready to shoot, Bishop calms the general and later agrees to go back to T e x a s and steal a shipment of U.S. Army rifles from a train for the general, in return for $10,000 in gold. Claiming he needs him, Bishop manages to convince Mapache to release Angel from custody. Later, Angel says he will not help them steal weapons to be used by the murderous soldiers against his people unless they give him one of the sixteen cases of rifles for the guerrillas. Bishop agrees. They successfully steal the rifles, but Thornton and his men are on the train and give chase. Bishop escapes from them at the border by blowing a bridge out from under the railroad bounty hunters. There are also U.S. Army troops on the train, but they are all inexperienced boys; as they arrive belatedly to the fight at the border, the bounty hunters begin shooting at them, killing some. Bishop and his men take the weapons, including a machine gun and grenades, into Mexico, where they give one case of rifles to the guerrillas. Suspecting that Mapache will try to take the guns without paying, they rig the wagon with dynamite. When Mapache's troops surround them, they threaten to blow up the weapons and the troops ride away. They hide the guns in different places, and

95

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

Bishop rides to Mapache's headquarters for his share of the gold in return for some of the rifles. He also gives the general the machine gun. Next, the Gorch brothers ride in, and finally Angel and Dutch. Mapache gives the last of the gold to Dutch, but he captures Angel whom he has learned stole the missing case of rifles. Having no choice, Dutch abandons Angel, and Angel protects him and the others by not admitting that Bishop gave him the rifles. When Bishop and the others learn of this, they are upset but can think of nothing to do about it. Just then, Thornton and his men ambush and cut off Sykes, who is bringing the extra horses. Seeing that Sykes is badly wounded and, being unable to reach him, Bishop and the others decide to go back to Mapache's village and let the general send troops to fight Thornton. In the village, Mapache is celebrating the new weapons and dragging Angel around by a rope. Angel is a bloody mess and Bishop tries to buy him back, but the general refuses; angry but badly outnumbered, the outlaws give up. They go off whoring, but they finally decide to get Angel. Armed to the teeth, they walk back and confront Mapache, his staff, and his 200 soldiers. When they ask for Angel, Mapache cuts his throat, and they kill him. After a moment of stunned silence, a battle begins—four aginst two hundred. Bishop, Dutch, and the Gorch boys fight their way to the machine gun, and before they are killed, they manage to wipe out the entire staff and most of the Mexican soldiers. As the dust settles, the bounty hunters ride in and again begin their gleeful scavenger hunt. Thornton, who admired Bishop and didn't like his job, stays behind sitting in the dirt, as the bounty hunters ride off with the bodies of the outlaws for the rewards. But soon shots are heard in the distance; then Sykes rides up with the guerrillas and he and Thornton decide to help them in their fight. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid Butch Cassidy and the Sundance

Kid, r e l e a s e d in 1970, is b y f a r

the most financially successful Western ever made. On Variety's 1973 list of all-time top money-makers, it was the first Western on the list and was thirteenth from the top, having made $29,300,000 so far. By comparison, the next Western on the list, How the West was Won, was twenty-third and its success was largely due to its Cinerama release. Butch Cassidy was directed by George Roy Hill, written by William Goldman, and stars Paul Newman as Butch, Robert Redford as Sundance, and ¡Catherine Ross as Etta Place. Butch Cassidy inspects a new bank and is impressed and annoyed

96

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

by the new bars, bolts, alarms, and safes. The Sundance Kid, meanwhile, is gambling, sinning, and being accused of cheating; another gambler threatens to shoot him unless he leaves without his money. Butch returns, tries to intervene, but is shoved away by the gambler. S o he shrugs and says, "I can't help you, Sundance." Hearing the name, the gambler gets nervous and refuses to draw. As Butch and Sundance leave with the money, the gambler says, "Hey Kid, how good are y o u ? " At this, Sundance whirls, draws, and shoots off the gambler's gun belt at the buckle, then shoots it across the room as well. Back at Hole-in-the-Wall, their hideout, Butch is challenged for the leadership of the gang by Logan, an immense man who wants to fight Butch to the death. Butch tries to avoid fighting, but since he must, he beats Logan by a trick. Then he and his gang ride out and rob the Union Pacific Flyer. That night in town, Butch and Sundance watch from the balcony of a whorehouse while the sheriff tries to raise a posse to go after them. The townspeople are completely unresponsive, and the sheriff is finally replaced on the podium by a bicycle salesman. Butch and Sundance talk a little, then Sundance goes to stay with his girlfriend, a schoolteacher named Etta Place. The next morning, Butch rides up to Etta's house on a bicycle, and he and Etta go for a ride to the accompaniment of music by Burt Bacharach. Later Butch, Sundance, and the gang rob the train again. This time, though, another train appears, and a group of horsemen jump off. They attack the outlaws, killing a few but chasing Butch and Sundance exclusively. The men follow the bandits all day and all night. At night, they use lanterns to follow the trail even over rock. Butch and Sundance use many tricks to elude their pursuers, but nothing works. Wondering who the men are, they decide that the leader must be Joe Lefors, the "best" and "toughest" lawman, and the tracker must be Lord Baltimore, the Indian who is the West's best tracker. The "superposse" (as it's called in the script) chases them to a high cliff overlooking a deep canyon and a stream. Having no recourse, they jump into the deep stream and are swept away, thus escaping the posse. Returning to Etta's house, they learn from the paper that it was, indeed, the two men they thought plus four other outstanding lawmen. This posse was hired by E. H. Harriman, president of the Union Pacific, just to find and kill Butch and Sundance. Knowing this, the bandits decide to take Etta and go to Bolivia, where there's a gold strike. Another musical interlude follows that shows them living it up in New York and on the ship to South America. In Bolivia, they start learning Spanish and robbing banks, until they see a man who they think is Joe Lefors, the lawman, still after

STRUCTURE OF THE W E S T E R N FILM

97

them. They decide to go straight and get a job as payroll guards for a mine. However, as they accompany the manager with the money, bandits attack, kill the manager, and trap Butch and Sundance. The Americans throw the bandits the money, and they get away. As the bandits count the money, Butch and Sundance appear on the rocks above them, asking them to give back the money since it is their job to guard it. The six bandits laugh and draw their guns; Butch and Sundance draw and kill them all. Later, with Etta, the men decide to become thieves again, and Etta decides to go back to America. This implies that she expects them to die, since earlier she said she would go with them to Bolivia but would not watch them die. She leaves, and Butch and Sundance rob a mine shipment. In a small town, someone recognizes the mules from the mine, and the two heroes are attacked and surrounded in a building by dozens of police. The outlaws need more ammunition, so Butch dodges across the square while Sundance keeps him covered, killing policemen right and left, Butch gets the ammunition, then he and Sundance dive back into the building. Both are badly wounded from many bullets. While they reload their guns and engage in some final repartee, hundreds of Bolivian troops arrive and also surround the building, each man aiming at the door. Finally, Butch and Sundance run out shooting and are frozen in motion by the film just as hundreds of rifles fire at once, then again, . . . then again. All these films are about a group of heroes working for money. They are not wandering adventurers who decide to fight for a lost cause because it is right, or for the love of a girl. They are professionals, men doing a job. They are specialists who possess the unique skills used in their profession. No longer is the fighting ability of the hero the lucky attribute of a man who happens to be in the right place at the right time. Now it is a profitable skill that the heroes utilize professionally, and this profitable skill explains why they are in that particular place at that particular time. The professional attitude of the heroes is stressed in each of the films. In Rio Bravo, Chance, Dude, and Stumpy are all paid officers of the law. Colorado is a hired guard for a wagon train; later, he too becomes a deputy. This is not so unusual, since many classical heroes—Hatton in Dodge City, Destry in Destry Rides Again, Dusty in Northwest Mounted Police—are also law officers; but their profession is never emphasized in these films as it is in Rio Bravo or True Grit. Chance refuses help from Wheeler and his drivers because they are "amateurs," "not good enough" to go up against paid "professionals." Later, to make the point perfectly clear, Feathers asks Chance, "How does a man get to be a sheriff?" and he replies,

98

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

"Lazy, gets tired of selling his gun all over, and decides to sell it in one place." In True Grit, the two male heroes are again lawmen, but, as in Rio Bravo, they are professional lawmen as opposed to, say, noble lawmen. Cogburn, a U.S. Marshall, and LaBoeuf, a T e x a s Ranger, are interested in finding Chaney because of the money offered for him, not because he killed Mattie's father. Cogburn at first ignores M a t t i e s concern with bringing her father's killer to justice, then he becomes interested when she offers him $50. Later, he negotiates a price for his services. MATTIE:

W h a t about my proposition?

COGBURN:

I'm thinking on it.

MATTIE:

S o u n d s like a m i g h t y e a s y w a y to m a k e fifty d o l l a r s to

COGBURN:

Don't c r o w d me, I'm figuring e x p e n s e s . I don't see h o w y o u c a n p l a y c a r d s , a n d d r i n k w h i s k e y , a n d think of t h i s d e t e c t i v e b u s i n e s s all at t h e s a m e time. Well, I'll tell y o u o n e thing. If I h a v e to go u p a g a i n s t N e d P e p p e r , it'll c o s t a h u n d r e d dollars, I've figured t h a t m u c h out. A n d fifty in a d v a n c e . Y o u ' r e trying to t a k e a d v a n t a g e of me. I'm giving you m y c h i l d r e n ' s r a t e s .

MATTIE: COGBURN:

MATTIE: COGBURN:

She finally agrees to the $100 but offers him only $25 in advance, and he accepts. Then, of course, he reneges on the whole agreement when LaBoeuf presents the prospect of yet more money for the same man. After the fight at the cabin, Cogburn takes the dead men to a trading post to establish his claim to the possible rewards and to sell their belongings for his own profit. Similarly, LaBoeuf is after Chaney in order to advance his own career in T e x a s as well as for the reward. In The Wild Bunch and Butch Cassidy, the heroes are not lawmen chasing criminals but the criminals themselves. T h e y are professional thieves. Like any well-run organization, the W i l d Bunch makes a contract with a client (General M a p a c h e ) to deliver some goods (rifles) for a fee ($10,000). T h e y make elaborate plans and carry them out with precision; the train r o b b e r y is a beautifully filmed, convincing episode in which four men silently take over a train, uncouple some cars, and steal the engine and the shipment without the accompanying soldiers or railroad deputies being aware of anything. T h e Bunch prepares for all contingencies and arranges some makeshift insurance (dynamite) to protect themselves from the possibility of default by their client. Butch and Sundance do less planning but are just as businesslike

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

99

in their attitude. W h e n Butch suggests they go to Bolivia and S u n d a n c e asks w h y , Butch replies, " N o w listen: if w e ' d been in business during the C a l i f o r n i a gold rush, w h e r e w o u l d w e h a v e gone to operate? California, right? W e l l , w h e n I say Bolivia, y o u think California b e c a u s e they're falling into it d o w n there—silver mines, tin, gold; p a y r o l l s so big w e ' d strain our b a c k s stealing 'em." A f t e r their e x p e r i e n c e as p a y r o l l g u a r d s and the fight w i t h the bandits, they discuss w h a t to do n e x t w i t h Etta. SUNDANCE: W e l l , w e ' v e g o n e straight; w h a t ' l l w e try n o w ? ETTA: T h e r e ' s other w a y s of g o i n g straight, y o u k n o w . T h e r e ' s f a r m i n g — w e c o u l d b u y a little p l a c e . SUNDANCE: I don't k n o w h o w to f a r m . ETTA: BUTCH:

W h a t about a ranch then? Closest w e e v e r c a m e to r a n c h w o r k w a s b a c k in our rustling d a y s . W e w e r e n ' t m u c h at it even then, and it's hard. T h e h o u r s are brutal. Y o u got to be a kid to start a ranch.

ETTA:

It w a s a silly idea, sorry.

In each of these films, then, the heroes are w o r k e r s w h o s e job happens to be fighting, w h e t h e r for the l a w or against it. T h e y are proud of their profession and content w i t h it as o p p o s e d to s o m e o n e like Shane, w h o is trying to give it up. C h a n c e and his deputies in Rio Bravo h a v e the j o b of l a w m e n , just as Butch and S u n d a n c e have the j o b of thieves. In the other films, the j o b is more specific: C o g b u r n and L a B o e u f take on the j o b of finding C h a n e y , the Professionals agree to " r e s c u e " Mrs. Grant, and the W i l d B u n c h contract to steal the rifles f r o m the train. In t w o cases at least, the professional a p p r o a c h to the job e v e n leads to a division of labor. In The Professionals each m a n has his o w n task—archery, horses, dynamite, and leadership—and b e t w e e n Butch and S u n d a n c e the responsibilities are strictly divided: Butch d o e s the thinking and S u n d a n c e does the shooting. T h u s , f r o m all five films our first t w o narrative f u n c t i o n s emerge: 1. T h e heroes are professionals. 2. The heroes undertake a job in return for money. A s in previous Westerns, the v i l l a i n s are v e r y strong. In Rio Bravo, Burdett has "thirty or f o r t y " gunfighters, "all professionals," w h o have bottled up the t o w n so that the sheriff can't get help in or his prisoner out. L u c k y N e d Pepper, the villain of True Grit, is an old foe of Cogburn's and leads a gang of o u t l a w s that neither C o g b u r n nor the other marshalls h a v e been able to catch. T h e foe of the Professionals is Raza w i t h his b a n d of guerrillas; besides s i m p l y outnumbering the heroes b y about ten to one, R a z a is an e x c e p t i o n a l

100

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

fighter. Rico says, "I have the highest respect for him, as a soldier." Later, there is this exchange about the merciless desert: RICO: Takes getting used to. EHRENGARD: Broiling by day, freezing at night, alkali dust choking every hole in your body, h o w in the name of God does anybody live here long enough to ge used to it? RICO: Men tempered like steel, tough men, men w h o learn h o w to endure. EHRENGARD: Like you and Dalworth? RICO: Oh no, men like Raza.

The heroes of The Wild Bunch have two opponents but only one is a real threat. Except for Thorton, the bounty hunters are all useless fools whom the heroes could easily destroy if they had the time. Mapache, on the other hand, has a troop of 200 well-armed, disciplined soldiers; he even has an adviser and an intelligence officer from the German Imperial Army. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid has only one set of villains, in the sense of evil men, but there are three sets of villains who want to destroy Butch and Sundance. The first set is the bandits who kill the mine owner and outnumber the heroes two to one. But the real supervillains are the special posse, which chases Butch and Sundance all over the West. This posse consists of the toughest lawman, the best tracker, and four other men of equal reputation. The third set of villains is the Bolivian Army, which surrounds and kills our heroes with hundreds of men: 3. The villains are very strong. The image of society in these films is again that of a group weak, ineffective, and distinct from its professional protectors. In Rio Bravo, Wheeler and his men are considered "amateurs," "not good enough," "too worried about their wives and kids" to be of any help in defending law and order. Aside from them, the only members of society—in fact the only ordinary townspeople who are ever seen—are Carlos and his wife, the small, comic, Mexican hotel-saloon owners who chatter and bicker, are useless allies, and seem hardly concerned with the war in their streets. Mattie has to hire her own marshall if justice is to be done; the established law is unable to help and seems uninterested. Even the citizens of Fort Smith—the boardinghouse lady, the horse trader—think she is "wrongheaded," mistaken in her efforts to capture her father's killer. Only one representative of ordinary society appears in The Professionals, and he is weak and fawning. Moreover, we are told that our four

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

101

specialists can succeed in rescuing a kidnapped woman while the established institutions of justice cannot. The Wild Bunch contains two images of ordinary, peaceful society. The first is the town where the initial bank robbery takes place—and this image is dominated by the old men, fat ladies, boys cowering inside the bank, and by the prim, proper, sanctimonious moralists who march down the street singing h y m n s and praching temperance. The citizens are defenseless, caught and killed in the murderous crossfire between the thieves and the bounty hunters. The second image is of the tranquil, friendly Mexican village that has just been raided and burned by the troops of Mapache. Many men were killed, many women were taken, and the village was powerless to stop them. Butch Cassidy'streatment of society is essentially the same, though in a lighter vein. In the town, after the first train robbery, Butch and Sundance watch the marshall try to raise a posse. W h e n the marshall tells a small group of citizens that it is their job to go after the thieves, there is absolutely no response, just blank faces. When he tells them that, if they hurry, they may be able to head them off before they reach Hole-in-the-Wall, one citizen replies, with general agreement, "Head 'em off? You crazy? We do that and they'll kill us." Throughout the film, the only trouble Butch and Sundance experience when robbing banks and trains is from the army and the hired superposse, never from the society itself. Train guards, bank guards and local police are always shown to be fearful and easily intimidated. Thus, a fourth function is apparent: 4. The society is ineffective, incapable of defending itself. Since the heroes are professional fighters w h o have taken on a job, sooner or later they are required to fight. Usually, that fight becomes a continuing battle with frequent skirmishes. In Rio Bravo, the war begins when Joe Burdett is arrested and it continues through five pitched battles, with strategy, reinforcement, and morale problems in between; in The Professionals, the war begins early and includes five battles, involving spies, artillery, and diagrams of battle plans; there are numerous fights in Butch Cassidy, and though they are not all with the same people, they are all for the same reason—the heroes' job involves breaking the law and they must therefore fight to survive. The Wild Bunch look forward to the fights their job requires. While their last fight is inspired by loyalty to a member of the gang, it is made clear that loyalty is a necessity of the profession, essential to the survival of the organization. When the Gorch

102

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

brothers turn on Sykes after an accident, Bishop—very angry and with his gun drawn—shouts, "You're not getting rid of anybody. We're going to stick together, just like it used to be. When you side with a man, you stay with him, and if you can't do that, you're like some animal, you're finished! we're finished! A l l of us!" Thus, even the last fight with Mapache is required by the work they have chosen. This requirement comprises another function: 5. The job involves the heroes in a fight. Function 6 is the standard function describing the heroes' exceptional ability. In this case, the function not only refers to their unusual fighting skills but to their accompanying status, something the classical hero had to earn but that these heroes already possess. Only Chance in Rio Bravo seems to have no particular reputation, even though he is the sheriff, whom everyone instantly obeys, and is the toughest of the group of heroes. Colorado, according to Wheeler, is good, "he's real good." Dude, according to Chance, "was the best man with a gun I ever worked with." As we see, he can draw, shoot, and cut the reins of a horse riding by even when he's got a hangover. After the fight in the street, when Colorado saves Chance, this conversation about Colorado takes place: STUMPY: CHANCE: STUMPY: CHANCE:

HOW good do you think he is? He's all right. DO you think he's as good as W h e e l e r said he was? Well, he threw me my gun, and w h i l e it w a s in the air he got one of them, then he got another one. STUMPY: Good enough, good enough. nuDE: Is he as good as I used to be? CHANCE: It'd be pretty close. I'd hate to live on the difference.

By the end of the film, of course, Dude is "as good as he used to be," since he is shooting dynamite out of the air with a pistol. Rooster Cogburn of True Grit, according to the sheriff of Fort Smith, is the "meanest" marshall of them all—"a pitiless man, double-tough—fear don't enter into his thinking." He himself tells us how he once routed a whole posse by turning and riding into them with his six-guns blazing. Later, he does the same thing to Ned Pepper and his gang, killing them all. LaBoeuf doesn't have an equal reputation, though he hits a moving target with a rifle at 600 yards to save Cogburn's life. Fourteen-year-old Mattie, shooting Chaney, surviving snakebites, and outwitting and facing down both Cogburn and LaBoeuf, may have the most grit of all. The Professionals have their skills, reputations, and specialties listed for us.

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM GRANT:

103

Henry (Rico) F a r d a n : Virginia Military A c a d e m y , Philippine c a m p a i g n , C u b a with R o o s e v e l t ' s Rough Riders, . . . joined P a n c h o Villa as w e a p o n s e x p e r t and tactician. H a n s E h r e n g a r d : E x - c a v a l r y m a n , cattle boss, wrangler, bullwhacker, packmaster. J a c o b S h a r p : S p e c i a l i s t with rifle, rope, and longbow. Most d e p e n d a b l e scout and tracker in the territory.

Only Dalworth is not listed, but according to Rico he is "a dynamiter, a man with a delicate touch to blow out a candle without putting a dent in the candle-holder." The reputations and abilities of the Wild Bunch are revealed in an early speech by Mr. Harrigan, the railroad official, when he is angrily lecturing the bounty hunters he hired after the first fight in town: "Bishop, Engstrom, Dutch, and Gorch brothers amount to a total of four thousand five hundred dollars, and you let them ride out on you, when the hard money value of the men you killed, less my commission, adds up to five hundred dollars." Later, when one of the bounty hunters asks Thornton what kind of a man Bishop is, he replies, "the best." Finally, the reputations and abilities of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid are established throughout the film. In the first scene, the Kid's name scares the gambler into submission, and then we see a demonstration of his skill with a gun. Immediately afterward, Butch defeats the much bigger and stronger Logan in a fight by using his head; and his reputation as a thief is such that the president of the Union Pacific Railroad hires a special posse and donates a special train just to catch him: 6. The heroes all have special abilities and a special status. To do the job and win the fight, the heroes form a group. This is an obvious function and easy to demonstrate, since it is the common attribute by which these films were chosen. Chance, Dude, Colorado, and Stumpy form a group, as do Cogburn, LaBoeuf, and Mattie. Mr. Grant pulls together the four professionals to do his job, and the five survivors of the bank robbery, together with Sykes, reform their gang and start over. Butch and Sundance actually lose some of their gang, but they always work together, and for a while they are joined by Etta who becomes a working member of the group: 7. The heroes form a group for the job. The next function describes what is probably the most important

104

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

and characteristic aspect of the professional plot: the heroes have a good time in the group; they like and respect each other. Until the 1960s very few films were made about a group of men working together, and those few were usually war or gangster stories. In the war films there are typically numerous undeveloped characters who are either weak cowards or homebodies and two strong characters who hate each other until one saves the other's life. In the gangster films, the more common of the two kinds, the story usually concerns a group of men who plan and execute a robbery, but who distrust, insult, hate, and finally betray or kill one another. Such films range from Little Caesar in 1930 to The Asphalt Jungle in 1950. In these films the notion is that, since the gangsters are primarily interested in money, the greed for more money inevitably undermines and destroys any common interests or needs on which friendship depends. In the professional Western, however, this pattern is changed and a new pattern emerges in which men can work together for money yet through their work build a common bond of respect and affection that transcends any private desire for personal gain. The heroes not only form a group to do a job but find comradeship, a place to belong. This comradeship, while expressed in different ways, is revealed by systematic understatement—affectionate kidding or sarcastic remarks punctuated by demonstrations of sincere concern. In each of the professional films, the demonstration of mutual respect is even more central than the detailing of the fight itself. The major interest becomes the building and maintenance of the unity of the group, and tension arises from the question: Can this unity survive, or will internal conflicts destroy it? It is difficult to demonstrate fully this sense of unity in any particular film, since it is both a constant and a changing aspect of the story. For each film, I will present some dialogue and describe one or two scenes that indicate the importance shared affection. In Rio Bravo, the most obvious example is the scene that takes place one relaxed evening in the jail, when Dude sings, Colorado plays the guitar and sings, Stumpy plays the harmonica, and Chance stands and watches approvingly. Two other scenes illustrate the dialogue and the unstated feeling running through it. The first is in the jail, after Dude and Chance have gone into the saloon for Wheeler's killer and Dude has successfully found and killed him: STUMPY:

YOU m e a n to tell m e you followed him into Burdett's saloon? W h y , you're c r a z y , and you are, too. W h a t hap-

DUDE:

pened? He w a s hiding in the loft.

S T R U C T U R E O F T H E W E S T E R N FILM STUMPY: W h o g o t

105

'em?

CHANCE: Dude did, one shot. STUMPY: Wish I could have seen that. I wish Wheeler could have, too. Wheeler didn't think Dude and me was much good. Leastwise that'd have showed him he was wrong about Dude, anyways. CHANCE: He was wrong about Dude, all right. You were good in there tonight, good as you've ever been. But you know one reason why you got by with it? They were laughing at you—the drunk talking big—you surprised them. Next time they'll be ready for you. Next time they'll shoot first and laugh afterwards. STUMPY: A W , listen to him. CHANCE: Don't get too cocksure. STUMPY: What a stinker! Spit in his eye, Dude! DUDE: Ah, never mind him, he's always been a stinker. If he were to change, that would worry me . . . CHANCE: How'd you know that fellow was in the loft? DUDE: He was losing blood . . . CHANCE: If he was bleeding, that means you hit him on the run outside. STUMPY: (happy) You did, Dude? That ain't bad, that ain't bad a'tall. CHANCE: (exasperated) Ain't good, either. We had to go in after him. STUMPY: (exasperated) Well . . . can't nobody ever please you no how? DUDE: You got a light, Stumpy? To fully appreciate this conversation, you must realize that it contains grudging and generous compliments to Dude; in a similar situation in the gangster films, the men w o u l d have only complimented themselves. More importantly, this conversation contains disparaging and sarcastic remarks toward Dude and rebukes toward Chance, none of w h i c h are taken to be offensive. Dude is not angered at the slights, and Chance does not care about the rebukes. What this means, of course, is that there is enough trust and confidence between such strong men to permit understanding without sentimentality; the heroes even s h o w approval through their insults. In the next scene, also in the jail, Dude is sobering up and returning to normal: DUDE: Oh, the girl Feathers wasn't on the stage. CHANCE: (slowly) I know that. DUDE: Tell her she could stay? CHANCE: NO, she . . . Yes, I did. What about it? DUDE: Oh nothing, nothing at all. CHANCE: Well, you were going to say something.

106

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN

DUDE:

CHANCE: DUDE:

FILM

Well, I r e m e m b e r e d in time. I r e m e m b e r e d another girl c a m e through on the stage and stopped over. I r e m e m b e r you told me she w a s no good. I didn't believe you, but y o u w e r e right—so naturally I figured you w e r e an e x p e r t and you k n o w just w h a t you're doing all the time. ( C h a n c e t h r o w s something at him.) I just h o p e you h a v e better luck than I had. Y o u know that's the first time I've been able to laugh about that. M a y b e there's some hope for m e yet. Maybe, but I doubt it.

CHANCE:

That's w h a t I like about you, John T., you're such an encouraging f e l l o w . . . . Stumpy, . . . your gun's a little stiff, do you mind if I file the action a bit? NO, I don't w a n t you to file no action on m y gun. . . . I might shoot myself. . . . (to C h a n c e ) W h y don't you give him his o w n guns? I forgot all about 'em.

STUMPY:

T h e y ' v e been locked up in there for over a year.

STUMPY:

DUDE: CHANCE: DUDE: CHANCE: STUMPY: CHANCE: STUMPY:

...

( C h a n c e gives Dude his o w n f a n c y guns, gunbelt, and holsters.) W h e r e ' d you get these? Bought 'em off the fellow you sold 'em to. (moved) I . . . I don't know h o w to . . . Let's take a turn a r o u n d the town. Ain't you going to tell me to get back in there? NO! S t a y out here and get shot. I might do that just for spite—might get a laugh out of you—(goes a w a y mumbling).

Here, in addition to sarcasm, we have self-deprecation (Dude and Stumpy) and the demonstration of real concern (Chance buying and keeping Dude's guns) coupled with the statement of unconcern (Chance telling Stumpy to get shot). Once again, the impact of such conversations is to portray the heroes as men who can kid themselves and each other without endangering their common bond. As Chance says of Colorado, "I'd say he's so good he doesn't have to go around proving it all the time." Most of the witty understatement in The Professionals takes place between Dalworth and Rico, who are old friends from the past. At one point, Dalworth is hanging by his feet in his underwear about to have his head cut off when he is rescued by Rico and Jake. After cutting him down, Rico calmly sits beside him and says, "You're going to have to get over this nasty habit of always losing your pants—it's undignified." Dalworth replies, "It's drafty, too." Jake is quiet but friendly, and he is seen to respect, and be respected by, Rico and Dalworth. The tension in the group comes from Ehrengard, who is bitter and sarcastic toward these two, thinking

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

107

they are hard and cruel. He particularly dislikes Dalworth and insults him constantly until, in the goatherd's camp, Ehrengard saves all their lives but is wounded in the process. Though he slows down their escape, Rico and Dalworth take care of him and we can see the unity of the group build in the crisis. When Dalworth stays behind to stall Raza and probably to die, Ehrengard wants to express his concern and friendship, but true to the ethic of strong, silent heroes he can only say, "Bill . . . " Dalworth understands the hidden feeling and leaves with a smile and a friendly, "See ya," implying "all is forgiven." This parting expresses the respect and affection now shared by all four of the heroes, and later at the border Ehrengard cements it. They rest before crossing over and, when Rico starts to go on to where Mr. Grant is waiting just on the other side, Ehrengard, who has disliked Dalworth throughout the film, says, "Well, as long as we're not pressed for time, it'd be sort of nice if Bill were here for the payoff." Rico, who is Dalworth's "ol* buddy," is worried but doesn't want to show it and acts annoyed. Then, of course, Dalworth rides up. Though everyone is glad to see him, no one says a word or even pays much attention. Rico, who has been looking back despairingly, does not even look at him, but just casually offers him a bottle of whiskey. Perhaps the most remarkable demonstration of group unity in The Professionals occurs when Rico and Dalworth decide not to let Grant kill their old friend Raza, whom they put on a wagon and send back to Mexico with Maria, Mrs. Grant. By doing this, they lose $10,000 each, and the remarkable thing is that Jake and Ehrengard go along with it. They are not consulted and it means losing everything they have worked for, yet there are no hesitations, no recriminations. The four men ride off together, good friends, forever, into the desert. In True Grit also, the fights with Ned Pepper and his gang serve mainly to build respect and affection between three people who start out intensely disliking each other. Mattie is angry at Cogburn for betraying their contract; she is angry at LaBoeuf for being condescending to her; and she is angry at both of them for trying to leave her behind. Cogburn is annoyed with Mattie because she is a child and a pest, and LaBoeuf is annoyed by her cutting sarcasm. Finally, Cogburn and LaBoeuf dislike each other because each thinks he's the better man. As their journey progresses, though, both men come to like and defend Mattie for her grit and determination, at the same time as she begins to admire both men for their ability and Cogburn and LaBoeuf learn to respect each other. At the end, though LaBoeuf is dead, Mattie and Cogburn have a deep affection for each other and for the Texan. The last scene sums it up. The

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

108

m a r s h a l l a n d the girl a r e in t h e f a m i l y c e m e t e r y at M a t t i e ' s f a r m : MATTIE: COGBURN:

MATTIE: COGBURN:

MATTIE:

COGBURN: MATTIE: COGBURN: MATTIE: COGBURN: MATTIE: COGBURN: MATTIE: COGBURN: MATTIE: COGBURN:

I still don't see why you didn't look up LaBoeuf's girl when you were in W a c o . "Well, I did the best I could, I took the boy home to be buried in his Ranger suit. No girl showed up. I don't believe there was one. I think you were too busy collecting the reward for Chaney. Well, I was just a little busy. Them T e x i c a n s forgot how much money they offered for reward—I had to help 'em remember. I can imagine how you did that. This is what I wanted you to see. (She shows him the cemetery.) Someday Mama will be here, and my brother little Frank and his family over there . . . and I will be here, on the other side of Papa. . . . I would like you to rest beside me, Rooster, (soft music begins) Now Sis, that place should be for your family . . . your husband, kids. You have no kin. . . . Now where else would you end up; in some neglected patch of weeds? Well, I just might take you up on that offer, Sis, if you'll excuse me if I try to move in too soon. T o me it's only right that you have Papa's gun—it might keep you alive. Well, I'm not so sure about that. It almost got you killed when it misfired once. That's because you loaded it wrong when you were in a state of drunkenness. Well then, I suppose I ought to get you to show me how. I will. (She looks at his horse.) Trust you to buy another tall horse. (mounting) Yeah, . . . Stonehill says he can jump a four rail fence. You're too old and too fat to be jumping horses. Well, come see a fat old man sometime. (He rides off, jumping over a four rail fence.)

T h e W i l d B u n c h c r e a t e s t h e s a m e s e n s e of g r o w i n g unity. In the beginning, after t h e b a n k r o b b e r y , t h e B u n c h is split by a n g e r a n d bitterness. T h e G o r c h b r o t h e r s insult A n g e l w i t h r a c i a l slurs, a n d he in t u r n m o c k s t h e m . L a t e r , T e c t o r G o r c h w a n t s to kill S y k e s for causing h i m to fall off his h o r s e . A t this point, B i s h o p m a k e s his s p e e c h — " w h e n y o u side w i t h a m a n , y o u s t a y w i t h h i m " — a f t e r w h i c h h e falls off his h o r s e , a n d t h e G o r c h b r o t h e r s laugh at h i m . Later, though, t h e u n i t y s t a r t s to build w h e n t h e y all w o r k t o g e t h e r on t h e train r o b b e r y . A f t e r t h e s u c c e s s f u l r o b b e r y a n d t h e e s c a p e

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

109

from the bounty hunters at the border, there is a scene in which this unity is demonstrated without dialogue. Tector Gorch, the one causing most of the trouble, silently offers his bottle of whiskey to Bishop, who drinks and throws it to Sykes; Sykes drinks, gives it to Dutch, and Dutch tosses it to Angel, bypassing Lyle Gorch, who begins to look unhappy. Angel drinks the last of the whiskey and gives the empty bottle to Lyle, who looks disgusted. At this point, Tector starts to laugh; then the entire group, including Lyle, breaks into hearty laughs, expressing mutual good will. There is not much witty understatement in this film, though Bishop often refers to Dutch as "you lazy bastard," even when they're both dying, and there is a realistic sense in which sarcasm can be seen to be offensive, even if it is among friends. The unity of the group is nevertheless stressed as in no other film, since it is this very unity that causes the death of the group. Angel is taken and openly tortured. Though they try to ignore it, the heroes finally cannot accept it. Bishop makes up his mind, looks determined, tells the Gorch brothers, "Let's go," and they and Dutch join him in the walk to get Angel, though they are greatly outnumbered and obviously going to their deaths. There is no discussion, no explanation, no hesitation; they all know what they have to do and do it. They ask for Angel, Mapache cuts his throat, and the battle begins. Although they cannot win, they appear happy knowing that they have been loyal to their comrade. In Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the technique of implicit affection expressed in explicit sarcasm becomes a fine art. Friendly irony abounds, dominating the relationship of Butch and Sundance and turning what would otherwise be a dull, almost plotless film into a moving portrayal of a warm, intelligent friendship. Butch and Sundance never say anything nice to each other, and Sundance never says anything nice to Etta; but somehow everyone knows that they are really very fond of each other. This "somehow" is possible because, when friends can exchange put-downs and still remain friendly, it means they are completely relaxed and unthreatened with each other. They are too tough to be overtly kind, and they can say whatever they want because each is supremely confident that the other would never really believe anything unfriendly or unkind about him. They can trust and depend on one another without question. This is a very attractive idea of love and friendship, and while it is the basis of the group unity in all these films, it is perhaps most strongly expressed in Butch Cassidy. In the last scene of the film, Butch and Sundance are trapped by the Bolivian Army. Both men lie gravely wounded and are struggling to sit up to reload their guns in preparation for the final and fatal charge outside:

110

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM BUTCH: (bloody and gasping) Is that w h a t you call giving c o v e r ? SUNDANCE: (also bloody a n d gasping) Is that w h a t you call running? If I knew you w e r e going to stroll . . . BUTCH: YOU never could shoot, not from the v e r y beginning. SUNDANCE: —and you a r e all mouth. . . . (During this n e x t c o n v e r s a t i o n , S u n d a n c e tenderly r e a c h e s over and b a n d a g e s B u t c h ' s bleeding hand.) BUTCH: I got a great idea w h e r e w e should go n e x t . SUNDANCE: Well, I don't w a n t to h e a r it. BUTCH: You'll change y o u r mind w h e n I tell you— SUNDANCE: Shut up! BUTCH: Okay, okay. SUNDANCE: It w a s your great ideas that got us here. BUTCH: Forget about it! SUNDANCE: I don't ever w a n t to h e a r a n o t h e r one of y o u r ideas, all right? BUTCH: All right! SUNDANCE: Okay. BUTCH: (after a pause) Australia. (Sundance just looks at him, disgusted.) BUTCH: SUNDANCE: BUTCH: SUNDANCE: BUTCH: SUNDANCE: BUTCH: SUNDANCE: BUTCH: SUNDANCE:

I figured secretly you w a n t e d to know, so I told you—Australia. T h a t ' s your great idea. (breathing h a r d ) T h e latest in a long line. A u s t r a l i a is no better than here. Ah, that's all you know. N a m e me one thing— T h e y speak English in Australia. T h e y do? . . . W h a t a b o u t the banks? T h e y ' r e easy—easy, ripe, and luscious. T h e banks or the w o m e n ?

BUTCH: SUNDANCE: BUTCH: SUNDANCE:

Well, It's a Ahh, Well,

o n c e you got one— long w a y , though, isn't it? everything's gotta be perfect with you! I just don't w a n t to get there and find out it stinks,

that's all. BUTCH: At least think about it. SUNDANCE: All right—I'll think about it.

After this, they get up, run outside, and are killed. In each of these films I have tried to illustrate the sense of unity, respect, and friendship created by the group of heroes doing their job. I have gone into some detail because, as I said, this group solidarity becomes of central interest. In a later chapter, I shall discuss what the occurrence in the sixties of a group of loyal, Western heroes means in the context of American society. But now I shall simply state this aspect of the professional plot as a brief function:

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

8. The heroes, as a group, share respect, affection, and

111 loyalty.

Function 9 completes our description of the important aspects of the group: they are independent of society. Each group becomes more or less self-contained. In Rio Bravo, Chance and his deputies have no families, no personal involvement in the reasons for the fight, and, as far as can be seen, no personal associations with the townspeople at all. They are simply doing their job. Except for Chance, their only association is with each other, and that association is sufficient for them. Even Chance, who together with Sundance is the only hero in these films to have a girlfriend, picks a girl not from the town, not a representative of society, but a wandering lady gambler who is wanted by the law and who fights for him and protects him with a gun. The entire group, including Feathers, is apart from the society. At one point, the heroes take their food, clothes, and bedrolls and move into the jail, isolating themselves from society physically as well as professionally. In The Professionals, the heroes are never around a society, and when they have the opportunity to go to town at the end, they turn their back on it and ride into the desert. Like the deputies, their group comradeship seems to provide all the social contact they need, and they are completely self-reliant in the desert, able to feed, clothe, and defend themselves. Similarly, Cogburn and LaBoeuf in True Grit have no attachments to society. When in town, Cogburn lives in a drunken stupor in the back of a Chinese laundry with a lazy cat, in a room that he keeps like a pigsty, according to Mattie. LaBoeuf claims he has a girlfriend, but no one comes to his funeral. Mattie has a home and a family, but at fourteen she is so independent that she can out-trade a horse trader and face down a stubborn old reprobate. She refuses to be left behind and proves to her friends that she is as independent as they are. Like the other groups, the three of them leave the society and remain outside of it physically, becoming self-sufficient for social contact and physical needs. The Wild Bunch and Butch and Sundance are so independent of society that they are outlaws. Like the deputies and the Professionals, the members of the Wild Bunch have no homes, families, girlfriends, or any other attachments to ordinary society. They talk only to each other, are always on the move, and live apart from any town or village; in this way, they create their own independent social group. Although Sundance has a girlfriend who is a schoolteacher, Etta is more of a partner in crime than a schoolmarm. For her, settling down and being a schoolteacher is "the bottom of the barrel," not something to aspire to; Butch and Sundance are "the

112

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

only excitement" she's ever known. Rather than being an attachment to society, she leaves society to join them in an independent social group. Once in a while the three of them go into society to enjoy the fruits of their labor, but it never occurs to them to join society for good and become respectable. Thus we have the ninth function: 9. The heroes as a group are independent of society. The remaining three functions simply state the climactic events of the plot. Sooner or later, usually repeatedly, the heroes fight the villains, and sooner or later they defeat them. This is obvious in Rio Bravo, The Professionals, and True Grit. The fight is evident in The Wild Bunch and Butch Cassidy, but the defeat is less so. The Wild Bunch all die; but they can be said to defeat the villains since they completely destroy the army of Mapache, even though they are outnumbered by two hundred to four. Butch and Sundance do not destroy the Bolivian Army—though they certainly kill many times their own number—but they do defeat the superposse; that is, they escape, and they defeat the Bolivian bandits. Thus, though it is not finally true, it is true enough to argue that functions 10 and 11 apply even here: 10. The heroes fight the villains. 11. The heroes defeat the villains. The last function describes the final disposition of the group of heroes—they stay together. After their job is finished, and they no longer need to stay together, they stay together. This may be strictly true of only two of our films, but it is true of most professional films: The War Wagon, El Dorado, Big Jake, and so forth. In these films, as in Rio Bravo and The Professionals, the heroes remain together when the film ends. Chance and his deputies get together back in the jail after the fight and kid each other; then Chance goes off to kiss Feathers while his frineds laugh at him. In The Professionals, the four heroes ride happily back into the desert together. Although, in True Grit, one hero dies and the other two separate, we sense that these two will keep in touch and get back together, at least in the cemetery. Perhaps my argument that the last function applies even to this film is not too convincing, but it becomes more convincing when you compare the ending of the film with the ending of the novel by Charles Portis. Most of the movie is very faithful to the novel, even the dialogue; yet in the novel LaBoeuf survives, takes Chaney back to Texas, and is never heard from again. Also, after Cogburn saves Mattie's life by taking her to a doctor, she never sees him again. She writes to him, and

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

113

he never answers. Thus, in the film, a special effort is made to change the ending so that the group survives, if only in memory. Cogburn visits Mattie, and w e see them together at the end. She wants them to be buried together, and he more or less accepts. Since LaBoeuf is dead and he is mentioned kindly, his absence does not make the group seem as incomplete as it would if he had indeed gone back to Texas. Finally, in The Wild Bunch and Butch Cassidy, the groups perish. In order to include this ending, I will simply interpret function 12 to mean: the heroes stay together, whether living or dead. What the function really means is that the heroes do not part and go their separate ways, at least not without a great deal of effort to keep them together, as in True Grit. When the heroes die together, our impression is that this is their finest hour. By dying together as a part of the job, they prove that their greatest commitment is to the group itself. Even when facing certain death the Wild Bunch and Butch and S u n d a n c e are more alive, have more excitement, and share deeper feelings than w o u l d ever have been possible if they had abandoned the job, and the group, to become respectable citizens. Thus, dying together or staying together expresses the s a m e group commitment, and either event supplies the final block for the narrative structure of the professional plot: 12. The heroes s t a y (or die) together. Putting them together, we have the entire list of functions for this structure: 1. The heroes are professionals. 2. The heroes undertake a job. 3. The villains are very strong. 4. The society is ineffective, incapable of defending itself. 5. The job involves the heroes in a fight. 6. The heroes all have special abilities and a special status. 7. The heroes form a group for the job. 8. The heroes as a group share respect, affection, and loyalty. 9. The heroes as a group are independent of society. 10. The heroes fight the villains. 11. The heroes defeat the villains. 12. The heroes stay (or die) together. This list illustrates the development in action and relationship between the heroes, the society, and the villains. The narrative interaction of the characters in the professional plot is quite different from their interaction in the classical plot; in order to grasp the meaning of this narrative difference, w e must grasp the basic conceptual meaning of these characters in the professional plot.

114

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

We must determine how these characters—the heroes, the society, and the villains—are opposed and contrasted on the different dimensions of the four fundamental oppositions of the myth. In this way, we can reveal what the myth is communicating through its narrative form—what types of people are taking what kinds of actions with what results. The four oppositions, which act as grid for conceptual characterization, are: inside society/outside society, good/bad, strong/ weak, wilderness/civilization. Except for the strong/weak contrast, each of these oppositions significantly changes its coding and application from the classical to the professional plot. Only the use of the strong/weak distinction is essentially the same in the professional plot as in the other Western plots, and for this reason I will discuss it first and quite briefly. W e have already seen, in function 6, that the heroes of the professional films share special fighting abilities and a special status. They are all tough, strong, exceptional people, most of whom are gunfighters, dynamiters, or other specialists with known reputations. Also, according to function 3, the villains are very strong; they too are either reputable fighters or have the support of an army. The society is weak and ineffective. The wagon drivers and townspeople of Rio Bravo are "amateurs" who would do more harm than good; the sheriff and people of Fort Smith seem unable and uninterested in helping Mattie find her father's killer; his money and social prestige cannot help Joe Grant get his wife back. This coding of gunfighting heroes and villains versus peaceful, respectable citizens is similar to the coding of the strong/weak opposition in the classical plot. The main differences are that the society is no longer threatened because of its weakness, and there is no longer just one strong hero. On the other hand, the coding of the inside society/outside society opposition is quite different from that of the classical plot. First of all, the image of society is far less prominent in the professional Western. The hero (or heroes) is no longer attracted by society. Like the classical hero, he is outside of it; but unlike the classical hero, he is perfectly happy to remain outside. Except for money, society has nothing he wants or needs, and it does not therefore motivate his actions. The image of society is important in the professional Western since it is necessary for the hero to be recognized as outside of society and for it to be clear what that means; but society and its values are no longer crucial to the development of narrative actions, which are now professionally motivated and take place apart from society. Thus, in these films, society is usually presented in a brief but sharp image, and then forgotten. This image is quite different from the image of society in the

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

115

classical plot, as is the image of the people outside of society—the heroes. The difference of coding in this opposition exists on two levels. The obvious difference from the classical plot is that the hero is no longer an individual, a lone stranger wandering around without social ties. He is now one of a group, still without attachments to society except contractual ones, but no longer without companionship and understanding. In fact, he now has a great deal of very satisfying companionship. Thus, on the second level, the essential difference in values that coded the opposition in the classical plot—human sociability and love versus individual independence—is no longer viable in the professional plot. The unattached individual now has sociation, so that can no longer be the central difference between being inside of society and being outside. Society is no longer characterized by the value of churches, schools, families, and moral progress, which stress its communal aspects. N o w society is characterized by temperance marchers, horse traders, and businessmen; and the distinction is between "professionals" and "amateurs," or more exactly between professional individualism and social conformity, professional values and money values. If w e look at the films, w e can see this distinction clearly. The most obvious difference between those inside and outside society is that those outside are physically separated from those inside, as is indicated by function 9. Unlike the classical hero, the professional heroes are well known to the society and may even be old residents of the town; but in the course of the film they inevitably separate themselves from the society, either because they are doing a job under contract or because their job makes them outlaws. Whatever the reason for their separation, their being outside and together leads them to accept a set of values that are not shared by the society. Chance, in Rio Bravo, makes the distinction—Burdett's men are "professionals," men "only interested in earning their pay," while Wheeler's drivers are "well-meaning amateurs, . . . worried about their wives and kids." Professionals must be outside of society—they cannot afford to be in society, or they would lose their effectiveness. Similarly, the people inside of society are doomed to be amateurs—they cannot pay the price required of professionals. Chance is talking about the villains, but his definition also applies to the heroes—they are men only interested in earning their pay. They are not interested in churches, schools, love, and moral progress. A s professionals, they are not just interested in getting money, as were the gangs in gangster films; they are interested in earning their pay. They are professionals in the sense that they are even more committed to their profession than to money. Each of

116

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

the professional heroes accepts and acts on the idea of professional loyalty—loyalty not only to the profession but to the other members of the profession. This is demonstrated in each of the films when the heroes inevitably act to defend either their profession or their colleagues even at the loss of their money or their lives. In Rio Bravo, Chance makes this choice when Dude has been captured and offered in trade for his brother by Burdett. Since only Dude and Chance witnessed the original killing of the citizen by Joe, once Joe is free Burdett will have to kill both of them if his brother is to remain free. Furthermore, it will be easy to kill them if they do not have Joe in jail as a hostage, so to speak. Thus, if the trade is made and Joe goes free, both Dude and Chance are sure to die, as both Stumpy and Colorado point out. Moreover, Dude is a professional; "he knew what he was doing." In spite of all this, Chance decides to make the trade because, as he says, "Dude ought to have a chance and he won't get one the other way." Happily, in this case, the heroes win and everyone survives. In True Grit the choice is made when Cogburn and LaBoeuf decide to let Mattie ride with them because they are impressed by her ability, her grit, her professionalism—"she has won her spurs," as LaBoeuf says. Later, when she is captured, their commitment almost kills Cogburn and does kill LaBoeuf. The Wild Bunch die because they feel they must fight for Angel rather than leave with their money; and Butch and Sundance reject farming and ranching and go back to being bandits, though they risk pursuit by Lefors and are abandoned by Etta. Sometimes this professional loyalty extends even to the enemies of the heroes, who are opposed to the heroes more as a matter of profession than of principle. In El Dorado, the main hero and the main villain—the two fastest guns in the West—often extend to each other what they call "professional courtesy," even in their gunfights; and in The Professionals the heroes not only risk their lives by slowing down to take care of their wounded colleague, but in the end reject the money out of loyalty to their opponent, Raza. In contrast to this idea of professional loyalty, the price of being a professional, what are seen to be the values of society? In Rio Bravo, society hardly appears except in the image of the drivers, who are useless because they're "worried about their wives and kids," and in the image of Carlos and his wife, who are either fussing and chattering about themselves or act simply as servants to the heroes. In both cases, society seems to be weak, unimportant, and overly self-concerned. The image is sharper in The Professionals. Joe Grant owns a railroad; he can and does order the track cleared for his personal train, is willing to spend $40,000 to get his wife

117

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

back, and is able to wire ahead and have $100,000 in gold coins brought to his train by a local banker. He buys his wife, forces her to stay against her will, orders murder committed, and lies to the heroes. Grant is a leading member of society w h o is clearly more interested in money and power than in human beings. The most telling and concise image of respectable society occurs in the interchange between Grant and the banker with the $100,000 to be used for ransom. The bank president himself, in a conservative blue suit, has brought the money to the train. A s Grant approaches, the bank president smiles and steps forward to meet the great man; but Grant simply ignores him and goes past to greet Rico, w h o m he does not know. The banker meekly follows them back to the train, where Grant abruptly signs the receipt and takes the money. The banker tries to make a polite comment, but Grant just turns away and gives orders: BANKER (stumbling after the train): Y o u really should count the money, Mr. Grant. GRANT: Didn't you count it? (The train pulls out.) BANKER-.

W h y , yes, of course, but

...

This interaction summarizes the idea of values and relationships in society. The banker and Grant have a business relationship based on money. Grant needs the banker, but is callous and rude to him; the banker needs Grant, and is polite at any cost. They do not see each other as colleagues, but as useful instruments of business. The same image recurs in True Grit. Not one of the citizens of Fort Smith with w h o m Mattie has contact gives her any word of comfort or sympathy over the death of her father. W h e n she arrives in town, the townspeople in a holiday spirit are happily gathering to watch a mass hanging. The lady w h o runs the boardinghouse where Mattie stays overcharges for meals and puts Mattie in a double room after she has paid for a single; the horse trader tries to cheat Mattie by telling her that the horses her father bought were geldings when she knows that he bought them for breeding and "you can't breed geldings." She only manages to get fair treatment for "a w i d o w and three small children" by threatening him with a lawsuit by her famous lawyer. Obviously, this is not the same society that wanted to build churches and schools and a moral community in Dodge City or Dawson. Finally, there is a scene in True Grit in which a well-dressed, fast-talking lawyer tries to accuse Cogburn on the witness stand of murder because he had to kill some wanted criminals; this scene emphasizes the difference between a life based on conformity to legal niceties and a life based on the individualism

118

S T R U C T U R E OF T H E W E S T E R N FILM

of human reality, the difference between amateurs worried about social convention and professionals worried about doing a good job. The image of conformity to convention is strongly attributed to society in the first scenes of The Wild Bunch. As the heroes march to the bank, they pass by a meeting of the Temperance Union at which the flock is ritually repeating the intonations of the preacher who is exhorting, "God help us to abstain from all distilled fermented malt liquor, including wine, beer, and cider." Then the entire meeting begins marching down the street in their blue temperance uniforms, accompanied by a brass band playing "Let us Gather at the River." A few minutes later, the marchers are shot to pieces in the crossfire between the bounty hunters and the heroes. Afterwards, when the townspeople blame Mr. Harrigan and the railroad for the massacre, he contemptuously dismisses them saying, 'We represent the law." He shows no concern or remorse for the innocent victims, but is intensely angry at the bounty hunters because they failed to kill the outlaws with the highest rewards. In Butch Cassidy, the image of conformity and self-interest in society is best revealed in the scene where the marshall tries to raise a posse. The townspeople look at him as a curiosity, not as a representative of justice and morality, and they are astonished when he suggests that they risk their lives to protect their own town. In the midst of his effort a bicycle salesman appears on his platform and begins making a sales pitch to the crowd, explaining to the marshall under his breath: SALESMAN: YOU got t h e c r o w d t o g e t h e r — t h a t ' s h a l f m y j o b — s o I just t h o u g h t I ' d d o a little selling. MARSHALL: W e l l , I ' m t r y i n g to r a i s e a p o s s e h e r e if y o u d o n ' t m i n d . SALESMAN: —a s h o r t p r e s e n t a t i o n — (to t h e c r o w d ) T h e h o r s e is d e a d ! (to t h e m a r s h a l l ) Y o u ' l l see, t h i s item s e l l s itself.

The spokesman for community values—the values that defined society in the classical plot—is replaced and dismissed by the spokesman for business and money interests. Later, a concise image of society is given by Etta as she decides to join Butch and Sundance outside of society: "I'm twenty-six and I'm single and I'm a schoolteacher, and that's the bottom of the pit. And the only excitement I've known is here with me now." Thus, in each film, the image of deep loyalty to the individuals in the professional group, loyalty which overrides self-interest, is contrasted with the money interests and the conformity of a society in which people are all the same and are evaluated as useful

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

119

instruments. Membership in the professional group assures that you will be recognized as an individual and treated with respect and trust, whereas membership inside of society only assures that you will be treated like everyone else, as a means to profit. Though the coding—i.e., what it means to be inside and what it means to be outside—has changed from the classical to the professional plot, its application has not; it separates the heroes from the society. Also, the villains can still be located on either side. They are more likely to be outside, in contrast to the classical plot, but they can still turn up as well-established members of society, as in Rio Bravo or The War Wagon. The good/bad opposition, on the other hand, has quite remarkably changed its application. Rather than separating the hero and the society from the villains, as in the classical plot, it now separates the hero from society as well as, on occasion, from the villains. To do this, the opposition has lost one of its two codes and retained the other. The coding of good versus bad based on the social values of churches and schools versus the selfish values of theft and exploitation has vanished along with the social values themselves. Now it is perfectly possible for the thieves to be the good guys, something that was never possible in the classical plot. This is because of the second coding of the good/bad contrast, the distinction between kind people and unkind people. The heroes in the professional plot are nice to one another and are therefore sympathetic. Chance and his deputes sing together, the Wild Bunch drink together, the Professionals unanimously reject money for love. Once in a while there is internal meanness, as is the case with Ehrengard or the Gorch brothers, but it provides for more satisfaction when they later become friends and the entire group is just a jolly, pleasant, fun-loving band of comrades. The society, however, is consistently unpleasant. Often—as with Grant and the banker, or Harrigan and his massacre—it is cruel and vicious. Mostly, though, it is unpleasant simply in the sense that it is not especially pleasant: it is mean and stingy, conniving, petty, and dull. In Rio Bravo, Carlos and his wife are made to seem flighty and superficial, suitable for running errands but boring as companions. The boardinghouse lady in True Grit is less concerned with Mattie's tragedy than with getting as much money as she can and keeping her chairs from being scratched by spurs. Similarly, the horse trader is condescending and self-righteous as he tries to cheat Mattie. In The Wild Bunch, Harrigan is willing to use and destroy people for the sake of the railroad and the reward; when the temperance marchers start walking into the trap Harrigan has set for the bank robbers, Thornton angrily says, "They should've been told!" and Harrigan replies, just as angrily,

120

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

"Told what? H o w long do you think anybody in this manure pile could keep his mouth shut?" Also, the film's sarcastic treatment of the Temperance Union makes the respectable citizens of society seem petty, intolerant, and foolish. Finally, the scene with the bicycle salesman in Butch Cassidy ridicules the w h o l e idea of civilized society, showing its willingness to accept mediocrity and degrading commercialism in contrast to the witty aliveness of Butch and Sundance. Society is portrayed to be bad, not for its evil as in the classical villains, but for its damning dullness and decay. On this redefined good/bad axis, the villains' location is more problematic than before. T h e y are clearly not as evil as the classical villains, because they no longer threaten to destroy society and its churches; they may not always be legal and honest, but then neither are the heroes. In fact, the villains are no longer necessarily bad. Often, they are simply the professional opponents of the heroes, the enemy soldiers in a battle situation—like Santa A n a ' s army against the Alamo. T h e y are often not evil—that is, not cruel—and they may not even be unkind. This is the case in The Professionals. Raza and Chiquita are old friends of the heroes, they have no grudge against each other; in fact, as it turns out, they should not even be fighting. But Raza and Chiquita are the villains, at least they are the ones trying to kill the heroes. Other than this, though, they and their guerrilla band are fighting against oppression and exploitation; they are nice and pleasant to one another; and they are even friendly to the heroes. When Raza finds out it is his old friend Dalworth who has kidnapped his lover, w o u n d e d him, and killed his men, he is not angry but has a friendly discussion about the revolution and old times with him. There is simply no basis for arguing that Raza and Chiquita represent anything bad in the film. This is also true of Ned Pepper and his gang in True Grit. Except for Chaney, w h o is a mean and nasty f e l l o w and is even abandoned by Ned, the Pepper gang consists of reasonably pleasant men w h o just happen to be outlaws; even Rooster w a s once an outlaw. Except for Chaney, Pepper and his friends are nice to each other and they are nice to Mattie when they capture her. True, they threaten her life, but then the heroes often do that: Dalworth, for example, threatens to kill Maria unless Raza's men let them pass. Basically, the Pepper gang is just a group fighting the heroes not on principle but because of professional happenstance. Even in Rio Bravo, Burdett's men ambush Wheeler, but other than that they conduct a proper w a r and just happen to lose. Burdett's motive is not oppression, destruction, or the like, but simply the protection of his brother, surely not an altogether ignoble aim. The villains in Butch Cassidy hardly even appear. The Bolivian bandits

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

121

are more or less evil, since they kill an unarmed man, but primarily they are bandits just like the heroes. Certainly the Bolivian A r m y is not bad, though perhaps a little u n f a i r in the odds they bring against Butch and Sundance; and the central threat to the heroes, the superposse of Lefors, is so professional it is not even introduced in the film. Like the Bolivian A r m y , the men in the superposse are simply doing a job; thus, their quarrel with our friendly thieves is only professional—their motivations and personalities are not important. What this means is that in the professional Western the conflict between the heroes and the villains is no longer a significant conceptual opposition. T h e battle is important because it makes possible the professional relationships of the heroes, their separation from society, and the establishment of their strength; but it is not important as a conflict and resolution of opposing social principles—churches versus tyranny, love versus rape, progress versus savagery. The fight is a professional one, and its existence is necessary, not victory. Victory is nice, of course, but it is not conceptually required by the meaning of the myth. Thus, for the first time the heroes of a Western can lose, as do Butch and Sundance and the Wild Bunch. The Wild Bunch at least defeats its opponents, but Butch and Sundance simply lose. This could not happen in the classical or the vengeance Western. If the hero lost the fight in these plots, it w o u l d be a loss in principle, and society w o u l d have to be seen as helpless before the attack of evil. In the professional plot it is the fight, not the outcome, that matters, because only in this version of the myth are the heroes not moralists but professionals. The last opposition of the Western myth, wilderness/civilization, is weaker in the professional plot, probably because it can no longer be used to make a distinction that is not otherwise made. In the classical plot only the hero is associated with the wilderness, and this is the only category that applies solely to him. A s I suggested, since he is also the only character w h o is both strong and good, identification with the wilderness makes possible a conceptual interpretation that he is strong and good because he is associated with the wilderness. In the professional plot, though, the heroes form a group and no one is conceptually separated from the others; thus, whatever characterizes one will also characterize the others. They are still strong and good, but now this combination can be attributed primarily to their group unity. The wilderness as a concept is not as structurally important to the meaning of the professional Western; therefore, the opposition is less prominent in these films. In Rio Bravo, EI Dorado, and The W a r Wagon, it is virtually

122

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

nonexistent; the heroes h a v e no v i s u a l or narrative association w i t h the wilderness. C h a n c e and his deputies n e v e r leave the town; they are not Indians; they e x h i b i t no w i l d e r n e s s lore. T h e i r clothes are western as o p p o s e d to eastern, but so are the clothes of their opponents. In other films, h o w e v e r , the opposition is as strong as ever. In T h e Professionals, the h e r o e s are constantly seen against the immense desert b e a u t y of Death V a l l e y . T h e y h a v e a k n o w l e d g e of the desert, can s u r v i v e in it, are e x p e r t h o r s e m e n and trackers, all of w h i c h strengthen their association w i t h the w i l d e r n e s s . In contrast, Grant and his men do not k n o w the desert and are a l w a y s seen in the vicinity of c i v i l i z e d technology—trains, buildings, automobiles, and so forth. Similarly, in True Grit, Cogburn, L a B o e u f , and Mattie ride out of t o w n into the b e a u t i f u l m o u n t a i n forests and are e n v e l o p e d b y them, a v i s u a l i z a t i o n that c h a r a c t e r i z e s them as absolutely different f r o m the p e o p l e of t o w n w h o n e v e r l e a v e the trappings of civilization. T h e music strengthens this distinction, for until the heroes l e a v e t o w n , the music is jocular and w i t t y as an a c c o m p a n m e n t to Mattie on her errands; but w h e n C o g b u r n and LaBoeuf first appear on the ridge of the mountain riding into the forested Indian Territory, the music s u d d e n l y b e c o m e s grand and e x p a n s i v e in a theme that b e c o m e s a leitmotif of the heroes on their travels in the w i l d e r n e s s . T h e W i l d B u n c h is filmed riding through magnificent canyons, v a l l e y s , and forests, a visual treatment not given to any other characters in the film. T h o r n t o n and the bounty hunters ride on a train, M a p a c h e rides in an automobile, but the W i l d Bunch ride o n l y on horses through the w i l d e r n e s s . Finally, Butch and S u n d a n c e are e x q u i s i t e l y filmed against broad e x p a n s e s of w e s t e r n scenery, in contrast to the t o w n s p e o p l e , the Bolivians, and e v e n Etta. Significantly, w h e n they all go to Bolivia, though it is mostly jungles and forests, there is no visual sense of wilderness—of w i d e o p e n land and f r e e d o m — a s if, w h i l e other p l a c e s may be w i l d , only the A m e r i c a n W e s t has m e a n i n g f u l w i l d e r n e s s . These four oppositions, w i t h altered coding and application, r e v e a l the s y m b o l i c meanings of the central characters in the p r o f e s s i o n a l Western. T h e y p r o v i d e a structural grid through w h i c h c o n c e p t u a l meaning is given to the actions and relationships of the characters in each of the narrative structures of the W e s t e r n myth. W e h a v e seen h o w these narrative structures change w i t h time, creating n e w ideas of society and of the i n d i v i d u a l ' s relationship to it. It is these ideas in the myth that essentially r e v e a l to the m e m b e r s of society w h a t their society is like and h o w they as i n d i v i d u a l s should act in it. T h e narrative structures of the m y t h attempt to r e c o n c i l e the

STRUCTURE OF THE WESTERN FILM

123

tension between basic concepts in the society (the oppositions) and the institutions of the society, institutions which change in time. In later chapters I shall analyze these narrative and oppositional structures in the context of American history and institutions. First, however, it is necessary to take one final theoretical step. The lists of functions that comprise the narrative structures are as yet only descriptive statements of dictional actions and relationships between fictional characters. In order to interpret them as explanatory statements, which have meaning for social action to viewers, it is necessary to explore more deeply the structural relationship between narrative as a form of communication and social action. In what way is narrative, particularly in a myth, not just a story of fictional characters but an explanation of society itself?

-4 J ^ y f h . a-s a. 2^Ta.rrectiTre of S o c i a l -ZLotion

A s a myth, the W e s t e r n consists of p a r a d i g m a t i c and syntagmatic structures—conceptual oppositions and narrative functions. T h e oppositions create images of social types, w h i c h reflect basic social classifications of people. T h e narrative f u n c t i o n s describe the interaction of these characters—both the actions and the situations of the narrative. I h a v e argued that a m y t h p r o v i d e s a c o n c e p t u a l model of social action and that, therefore, the narrative action of the myth relates to the e v e r y d a y social actions of individuals. T h e oppositions help create this m o d e l b y making the characters significant. But the f u n c t i o n s o n l y d e s c r i b e actions and situations, and as such they are o n l y statements, not s y m b o l s that help create conceptual order in h u m a n consciousness. T h a t is, w e h a v e not as yet a n a l y z e d the narrative structure of myth, a g r a m m a r in the process of c o m m u n i c a t i o n , as w e did the b i n a r y structure. W e need an analysis of narrative structure that is not only descriptive but e x p l a n a t o r y , that explains h o w i n d i v i d u a l s in a society interpret the narrative actions in their myths. S u c h an analysis w o u l d lead to an understanding of h o w actions of characters (social types) are interpreted as creating social situations (relations b e t w e e n characters) that are t y p i c a l or desirable in e v e r y d a y life. In particular, this analysis w o u l d again raise the p r o b l e m of temporal order. H o w do the f u n c t i o n s that c h a r a c t e r i z e a myth or plot relate to one another in terms of cause and effect? W h i c h actions can be interpreted as causing w h i c h situations? T o resolve this p r o b l e m and provide a basis for an analysis of narrative as c o m m u n i c a t i o n ,

124

MYTH A S A NARRATIVE OF SOCIAL ACTION

125

I will introduce the notion of narrative sequence. A narrative sequence is an ordered group of narrative functions that is typically smaller than the entire list of functions for a story but in which the sequence of the functions is unchangeable. Thus, the narrative structure of a myth or story consists of one or more narrative sequences, each of which is ordered internally but unordered with respect to the other sequences where there may be embedding and overlapping. This idea of narrative sequence provides an analytic connection between the functions as a description of a myth and the narrative structure as a model and communication of social action. For an analysis of narrative sequence I will turn to the work of philosopher Arthur Danto, who argues in The Analytical Philosophy of History that narrative sequence is the basic form of historical explanation. In defending his argument, he provides an analysis of the structure and meaning of these sequences that will help us to clarify the symbolic structure of myth. Danto begins his discussion with a critique of the distinction between plain and significant narratives—narratives, that is, that only describe a series of events and narratives that also explain those events. This distinction is false, he argues, because all narratives both describe and explain. Narrative in itself is a form of explanation, a selection and an arrangement of events that make their successive occurrence understandable. "Narratives may be regarded as kinds of theories, capable of support, and introducing, by grouping them together in certain ways, a kind of order and structure into events" (Danto, p. 137). Any successful narrative description will necessarily include assumptions, made by the author or narrator, as to why particular events were chosen, why others were left out, and why the chosen events, arranged in this way, comprise a satisfactory description. These assumptions amount to an explanation of the events, in the sense that they provide reasons why the final events follow from, are the result of, the earlier events. The key word is narrative. It is certainly possible to offer a description of an event—Bill sat in the chair—that provides no explanation; but it is not possible to offer a narrative description of this kind. Danto points out that this idea of narrative agrees with our ordinary behavior. If someone asks me why some event occurred, my response is to tell a story that incorporates this event into a sequence of prior events. If then narrative is a form of explanation, what kind of explanation is it and what is the structure of the explanation? One way to explain temporal or historical events— Danto argues that it is the only way—is to account for a change.

126

MYTH AS A NARRATIVE OF SOCIAL ACTION

If we are to explain a situation—say, w h y the car is dented—we must account for the change f r o m w h e n the car w a s not dented. "Simply to describe an automobile as dented, for example, is implicitly to refer to an earlier state of this same automobile in which it was not dented; and to d e m a n d an explanation of the change" (Danto, p. 233). Similarly, to explain the rise of European capitalism is to account for the change from feudalism to capitalism. This mode of explanation takes the form of initial and final descriptions of a situation with an intervening description of actions or occurrences that account for the change. This form is exactly the form of narrative; in fact, having this form is a minimal requirement for a description of a sequence of events to be a narrative. For a story to be a story, it must include continuity of subject as well as a beginning, a middle, and an end—that is, an initial and closing situation and an account of the movement or change f r o m one to the other. "A story is an account, I shall say an explanation, of h o w the change f r o m beginning to end took place, and both the beginning and the end are part of the e x p l a n a d u m " (Danto, p. 234). From this idea of narrative—an explanation of a change within a given subject—we can derive the structure of the narrative sequence, the basic element of narrative. A narrative sequence reflects the general form of narrative in the restricted context of a specific situation and a specific action. Given a situation "x", the model offered by Danto is the following: 1. x is F at t-1 2. H h a p p e n s to x at t-2 3. x is G at t-3, w h e r e t represents time.

Each stage in the model consists of the description of a situation or an act on that situation. Since this is precisely the definition of a function, we can say that a narrative sequence is a set of three functions that account for a change in a specific situation, the initial and final descriptions of that situation being included in the sequence. The complete narrative may consist of only one narrative sequence; usually it does not. Every narrative accounts for a change, but the change most stories seek to explain is too complex to be contained in one sequence. Most narratives are composed of m a n y sequences that are e m b e d d e d in and overlap one another; the entire story presents many changes that build to an account of the final situation. "Changes are nested within changes, and stories require increasingly complex middles to explain the outermost change. W e might represent it graphically as follows:

MYTH AS A NARRATIVE OF SOCIAL ACTION

127

0 (0) ((())) (((()))) • • • ((((())))) • • •

Obviously, this is too neat. For we have cases like the following: (

0

0

0

)

which raise special questions of multiple causation and overdetermination, as well as cases like this (0

( 0

)

0)

where we have overlaps" (Danto, p. 241). This means, of course, that within one narrative sequence, the middle term, that explains the change, may not be a statement (function) but another sequence or even a series of sequences. For example, in Story 1 from Chapter 2, we had the five functions: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

A B A B A

loves B. ignores A. seduces B. leaves A. dies.

In this structure, one narrative sequence consists of the functions 2, 3, and 4—B ignores A, A seduces B, B leaves A. This sequence explains the change from B simply being unaware of A to B rejecting A. If we label this sequence a, then we can see that sequence a becomes the middle term in another narrative sequence, sequence b; that is, sequence a explains the change from A loves B to A dies: 1.

A loves B.

5.

A dies.

Notice that sequence a is necessary for an explanation of the change in sequence b, since by itself neither function 2, 3, or 4 adequately accounts for the change from function 1 to function 5. This embedding structure, as we shall see, is one that often occurs in the Western. As an explanation of change, a narrative sequence is also, in the context of a myth, an explanation of a relationship. This, of course,

128

MYTH A S A NARRATIVE OF SOCIAL ACTION

is the crucial point, since w h a t I w a n t to s h o w is that narrative structure in a myth p r o v i d e s a m o d e l for establishing social relationships. W i t h Danto's analysis of narrative, most of the w o r k is done. A narrative s e q u e n c e e x p l a i n s a c h a n g e f r o m a beginning situation to an ending situation. In a m y t h these situations are d e s c r i b e d in terms of relationships b e t w e e n c h a r a c t e r s — " T h e hero is u n k n o w n to society," " T h e r e is conflict b e t w e e n the villains and the s o c i e t y , " and so on. Thus, in a myth, a narrative s e q u e n c e e x p l a i n s a c h a n g e in social relationships—the action of a character in the context of one social situation is seen to bring about a n e w situation, a n e w relationship of characters. But through the structure of oppositions, the characters represent social types; thus the narrative s e q u e n c e s e x p l a i n the interaction and relationships of social types. O n l y the exact sense of e x p l a i n r e m a i n s to be clarified. R e m e m b e r that a narrative is not just p o s s i b l y an e x p l a n a t i o n ; it is inevitably an explanation. It e x p l a i n s h o w a certain situation c a m e about f r o m a prior situation. T o e x p l a i n this change, the story presents all of the information n e c e s s a r y to u n d e r s t a n d the change. T h e story offers a theory of the change, w h i c h cannot be c h a l l e n g e d if the story is successful. This m e a n s t w o things: first, it m e a n s that the story accounts for w h a t h a p p e n s in it. If a story begins w i t h a murder and ends w i t h the capture of the murderer, the story must e x p l a i n the capture, w h e t h e r the e x p l a n a t i o n is p o l i c e t e a m w o r k , technological sophistication, i n d i v i d u a l courage, or blind luck. No story could begin and end this w a y and not be, in some sense, " a b o u t " the capture. S e c o n d , and less o b v i o u s l y , if the story s u c c e e d s , w e do not question its e x p l a n a t i o n . A story creates its o w n w o r l d , and in that w o r l d things h a p p e n and p e o p l e act for the reasons g i v e n in the story. W e m a y find the story uninteresting or even u n b e l i e v a ble, but w e do not b e l i e v e it h a p p e n e d another w a y . W e do not, for e x a m p l e , finish W a r a n d P e a c e and feel that, e v e n though Pierre is a fictional character, he p r o b a b l y did not do w h a t the n o v e l says he did. In its o w n context, the e x p l a n a t i o n g i v e n b y a story is necessarily accepted. W e m a y question its validity, but not its reliability. This is because the situations that are e x p l a i n e d by the story are also described b y the story. A s Danto puts it: " P h e n o m e n a as such are not e x p l a i n e d . It is only p h e n o m e n a as c o v e r e d by a description w h i c h are c a p a b l e of e x p l a n a t i o n , and then, w h e n w e speak of explaining them, it must be w i t h r e f e r e n c e to that d e s c r i p t i o n " (Danto, p. 218). In a story, the descriptions of the situations are given in such a w a y that the important characteristics of these situations are e x a c t l y those treated b y the e x p l a n a t i o n of the change.

MYTH AS A NARRATIVE OF SOCIAL ACTION

129

In this way the honesty of the story is assured. If, in our murder mystery, the murderer is caught because he plays the piano, then the fact that he plays the piano will be included in the description of his character. If we learn that he plays the piano, we can be sure that this fact will be important to our understanding of the story—the execution of the murder, the motivation, the capture, whatever. That is, everything in a story is important to the story. Unlike life, there is no extraneous information. If there were, the story would become boring (unsuccessful), so that later we would ask, "What was the point of that, or that?" As a child I used to wonder why, when people in movies coughed, I knew they would get sick and die, yet when members of my family coughed, I didn't worry. The reason was that one was a story. Thus, we have three properties of narrative: they explain a change in situations, their explanations cannot be questioned in their own terms, and everything in the narrative contributes to the explanation. Returning to myths, then, we see that myths like other stories contain all the information necessary to understand its characters and events. The characters in a myth represent fundamental social types. The social types are located in a situation in which all the facts relevant to an understanding of their actions are known. Their actions, of course, create new relationships, and since these relationships are between images of significant kinds of people, the actions themselves become images of significant kinds of actions. Thus, a myth creates a conceptual model of important social types of people located in a complete social situation and taking significant social actions, actions that create social relationships. It is in this sense that a myth explains social interaction.

5

Ixid.iTricLu.als and "SZalues: The Classical Plot

To relate the various Western plots to their social context, I must provide an independent analysis of the social institutions of America and demonstrate the correlation between the structure of the Western and the structure of those institutions. Moreover, I must show that the structure of the institutions changes in accordance with changes in the structure of the Western and that this institutional change predates a little but approximately corresponds in time to the change in the structure of the myth. For this institutional analysis, I will turn to the work of several social analysts, none of whom is remotely interested in Western movies, analysts such as John Kenneth Galbraith, Jurgen Habermas, and C. B. MacPherson. Some of these men analyze the structure and ideology of the institutions of the market, while others are concerned with the shift in America from market capitalism to corporate capitalism and the effects of this shift on social institutions and public ideology. For my purposes, I will summarize their discussions briefly, perhaps too briefly, and then show how the basic components of market structure and ideology are faithfully portrayed in the classical Western, just as the basic components of corporate structure and ideology are faithfully portrayed in the professional Western. In this way, I can reveal a significant structural and temporal correspondence between social institutions and the Western without attempting to demonstrate a mechanism of direct influence. My purpose is not to show how institutions create a myth, nor to show how myths create institutions, but to show that the structure of any social myth, such as the Western, must symbolically reflect the structure of social 130

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

131

actions as those actions are patterned and constrained by the central institutions of society. The interaction of individuals is structured more or less directly by the institutions of society, such as the economy, family, and system of education. If these institutions are to function, the people of the society must act so as to maintain them. Thus, for example, in an industrial society workers must be motivated to continue to raise their standard of living and to accept the constraints and discipline of the factory or the office. W i t h o u t such motivation, there is no w a y to insure they will work w h e n they do not feel like working, a necessity of an industrial economy. On the other hand, the values and goals of a society are not so directly determined by its institutions, since these values are also derived f r o m culture and traditions passed on f r o m generation to generation. In a traditional society, where the institutions are often stable over long periods, there is usually a close fit between cultural values and institutional actions. But in a modern society, w h e r e institutions change rapidly, it can sometimes h a p p e n that the values and goals of the society are in conflict with institutional requirements. Sooner or later, through revolution or cultural change, the values and the institutions will become more compatible; but meanwhile, a conceptual dilemma exists for the people of the society, a dilemma which confronts traditional values with the attitudes inherent in institutional actions. It is this kind of dilemma and its solution in modern America that the Western symbolically addresses. The most significant development in American institutions in the last forty years has been the change f r o m a competitive, market society to a planned, corporate economy. According to John Kenneth Galbraith, this change began to take place around the end of World War II, or shortly thereafter. The self-regulating market with its process of supply and d e m a n d could no longer be d e p e n d e d u p o n to govern the forces of production, prices, and employment. As a result, in the fifties there was an increasing reliance on and commitment to economic regulation and planning by large corporations and especially by the federal government. Galbraith attributes this change to the economic necessities inherent in the massive industrial technology created after the war; but as Richard Barnet observes, it can also be understood as an increasing effort by the government to utilize its spending power to prevent the economic crises that the market had periodically created before the war. This is the policy of Keynesian economics, a policy w h i c h the Eisenhower Administration experimented with and the Kennedy Administration was committed to (Barnet, pp. 165-166).

132

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

The two major expressions of the Western myth, the classical and the professional plots, correspond in time and structure to these two periods of economic organization. In Chapter 7, I will discuss in greater depth the nature and causes of the shift to a corporate, regulated economy. In this chapter on the classical plot, my task is to examine the nature of the market economy and to demonstrate how the structure of the classical Western reflects the conflict between institutional constraints and the cultural values of a market society. The market economy, which developed in Europe in the nineteenth century, was a unique event in history, since it demanded and enforced an institutional separation of society into economic and political spheres. According to Karl Polanyi, "a market economy is an economic system controlled, regulated, and directed by markets alone; order in the production and distribution of goods is entrusted to this self-regulating mechanism" (1956, p. 68). This implies that economic relations are no longer subject to control by social goals and values, the traditional realm of politics. The exchange of labor, land, and money is now determined by the needs of the autonomous market, not by the customs and traditions of cultural institutions. But labor is simply the everyday activity of humans, land is their natural environment, and money simply a symbol for goods and services, so that necessarily the market comes to regulate the ordinary social relationships of people in a market society. This economic regulation was historically new; in all previous societies, social relationships were governed by political and religious institutions, which responded to social values and directed the economy with respect to those values. "Man's economy is, as a rule, submerged in his social relations. The change from this to a society which was, on the contrary, submerged in the economic system was an entirely novel development" (Polanyi, 1965, p. 97). In particular this development meant that the individual was no longer seen as seeking social standing in accordance with values derived from social interaction, but was seen as an autonomous being whose primary motivations were individual and economic: satisfaction of hunger, desire for possessions, rampant self-interest. " 'Economic motives' reigned supreme in a world of their own, and the individual was made to act on them under pain of being trodden underfoot by the juggernaut market. Such a forced conversion to a utilitarian outlook fatefully warped Western man's understanding of himself" (Polanyi, 1965, p. 96). Following an essay on technology and society by Jurgen Habermas, we can further clarify the conflict between the market and social goals by distinguishing the institutional framework of a society—the

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

133

norms and values derived from social communication and interaction—from the purposive-rational subsystems which are embedded in the institutional framework and utilize instrumental or technical action for the accomplishment of social tasks. Thus religious or kinship structures would be based on moral rules of interaction and would be part of the institutional framework, while the economic system or the state apparatus would act to insure survival and order and would be based on rational and technical action. A "traditional society," then, is one in which the institutional framework successfully limits the growth of subsystems of purposive-rational action. Such subsystems exist in the traditional society, but their inherent "rationality" is never fully developed since they function within a mode of interaction that is legitimized by unquestioning acceptance of mythical, religious, or metaphysical interpretations of reality. When these traditional underpinnings of knowledge and action start to lose their authority and the instrumental subsystems are gradually freed from normative control, the society is beginning the process of modernization. Historically, this process has depended upon the development of capitalism, an economic system that follows its own internal rules. T h e capitalist m o d e of p r o d u c t i o n c a n be c o m p r e h e n d e d as a m e c h a nism that guarantees " p e r m a n e n t " e x p a n s i o n of subsystems of purposive-rational action and t h e r e b y o v e r t u r n s the traditionalist "superiority" of the institutional f r a m e w o r k to the forces of production. Capitalism is the first m o d e of p r o d u c t i o n in world history to institutionalize self-sustaining e c o n o m i c growth. ( H a b e r m a s , p. 96)

With this change in the mode of production comes a crisis in the legitimizing of domination. The forces of production were previously subject to political, or traditional, authority; production and trade were organized to insure a traditional social order, and these activities took place in the context of ritual distinctions and obligations between gods, seasons, and classes. Under capitalism, the rational, instrumental aspects of production for gain replace the ritual, political constraints on economic activity, and so the legitimacy of traditional authority is lost. In its place it is necessary to erect a new structure that authorizes and legitimizes the dominance of economic needs over political goals. Legitimation comes to be based on the exchange relations of the market itself, the notion of "just exchange." The market, through the working of supply and demand, determines production and thereby structures social relationships. These relationships are then legitimized and protected by the authority of the political order, which has become a caretaker for the market. As a result, political domination is no longer legitimated "from above" (through cultural tradition) but "from

134

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

below" (through the relations of production and social labor). O n l y w i t h the e m e r g e n c e of t h e c a p i t a l i s t m o d e of p r o d u c t i o n c a n t h e l e g i t i m a t i o n of t h e i n s t i t u t i o n a l f r a m e w o r k b e linked i m m e d i a t e l y w i t h t h e s y s t e m of s o c i a l labor. O n l y t h e n c a n t h e p r o p e r t y order c h a n g e f r o m a "political relation" to a " p r o d u c t i o n relation," b e c a u s e it legitimates itself t h r o u g h t h e r a t i o n a l i t y of t h e market . . . a n d no longer t h r o u g h a l e g i t i m a t e p o w e r structure. It is n o w the p o l i t i c a l s y s t e m w h i c h is justified in t e r m s of t h e l e g i t i m a t e r e l a t i o n s of p r o d u c t i o n . ( H a b e r m a s , p. 97)

Thus, the capitalist mode of production makes two contributions to the societies in w h i c h it arises: the effective release and p e r m a n e n t expansion of the subsystems of purposive-rational action, and the establishment of an economic legitimation that allows the political system to adapt to the n e w d e m a n d s of rationality inherent in these subsystems. Though capitalism destroyed the traditional legitimation of authority, it did not directly attack the institutional basis of social norms. Social goals and values w e r e still established in an interaction context of public discussion. "Old style politics was forced, merely through its traditional form of legitimation, to define itself in relation to practical goals: the 'good life' w a s interpreted in a context of interaction relations. The same still held for the ideology of bourgeois society" (Habermas, p. 103). T h e values and goals of the "good life" changed, since they w e r e no longer based on religion and myth but on the market principle of just exchange. However, "even this bourgeois ideology of justice, by adopting the category of reciprocity, still employs a relation of communicative action as the basis of legitimation" (Habermas, p. 97). The ideology of just exchange implied equality and opportunity and the possibility of achieving for everyone the "good life"—property, family, friends, peace, and freedom f r o m domination. Of course, not all the values of bourgeois ideology were i n d e p e n d e n t of the market and capitalist production; in fact, these values supported a pernicious form of economic domination, as Marx recognized. But in contrast to the ideology of technology, which we will discuss later, a large part of the public accepted the market and the economic legitimation ot authority because they understood, and were committed to, the practical social goals of bourgeois ideology, w h i c h were to some extent traditional desires in h u m a n experience. The free market, as a subsystem of purposive-rational action, was seen as a means for creating a society based on consensual norms and communicative action, the "good society." The institutions of capitalism, however, were not able to fulfill

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

135

the goals of bourgeois ideology. "Capitalism's actual development manifestly contradicted the capitalist idea of a bourgeois society, emancipated from domination, in which power is neutralized" (Habermas, p. 101). The failure of the free market to satisfy its social promise can, in part, be attributed to the unique relation between the values and institutions of capitalism. In traditional society, with political legitimation "from above," the social values govern the institutions of society: to protect the institutions is to maintain the values. In capitalist society, with political legitimation "from below" —that is, from the relations of production—the economic institutions of society, based on the practice of the market, enter into a problematic relation with the values and goals of the society, based on the principle of just exchange. In this situation of contradiction between institutions and values, the society must make an ideological commitment to one or the other, as we shall see in our discussion of the professional Western plot. For the present, however, we must notice the conceptual conflict between the values of bourgeois society and the institution of the market. Bourgeois values, though attached to the rationality of the market, are still founded on consensual norms that stress freedom, equality, peace, and the theoretical availability of meaningful human relationships—family, love, satisfying work—to everyone. The institutions of capitalism, however, structure actual human relationships according to the needs of the self-regulating market, which, of course, is not concerned with social values but with profit and production. The market "handed over the fate of man and nature to the play of an automaton running in its own grooves and governed by its own laws" (Polanyi, 1972, p. 96). If men's social actions are structured by the market, then many of their social ideas and attitudes must also be structured by the market; for if men are to act, they must understand their actions as reasonable and significant. We have already seen how the notion of just exchange, derived from the market, becomes the basis for the values of bourgeois society. But what are the images of the individual and his role in society that the market, through its regulation of human activity, creates in the minds of its participants? Proper market behavior depends upon the idea of economic man, the self-interested individual; and it is this idea, grounded in institutional action, that is in conflict with the social goals and values based on the idea of interaction and just exchange. What are the dimensions of this image of economic man? What is the view of the individual and society that has "fatefully warped Western man's understanding of himself"? The distinguishing features of a market economy are (1) that the

136

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

rewards for work are determined by the market, there is no authoritative social allocation of jobs or wages; and (2) that land and labor are commodities that can be bought and sold. Under these conditions, society does not guarantee the individual's ability to survive or to enjoy his life. Each individual's ability to produce and his access to the means of production depend upon his ability to make himself attractive to the market. In a market society, it is common for individuals to be separated from the means of production and required to sell their labor, if they can, in order to survive; each individual must strive to increase his wealth, his ability to control land and labor. In this effort, he must compete with all other individuals who must also strive to increase their wealth and thereby control his labor. In a market economy, the efforts of an individual to enjoy the benefits of his society are not directed at increasing those benefits for everyone, but are necessarily directed at preventing others from enjoying those benefits. The individual must see himself as self-reliant and independent of the wills of others, except through the establishment of economic contracts. He must recognize his abilities and capacities as belonging to himself, not to the social group, and he must utilize these capacities in the most rational manner to increase his own wealth. This is the view of the individual inherent in the market, and it underlies the theory of possessive individualism, which provides a philosophical underpinning for the market. In his book The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism, from which this argument is taken, C. B. MacPherson lists the three assumptions about the individual and society which are basic to the idea of possessive individualism: 1. What makes a man human is freedom from dependence on the wills of others. 2. Freedom from dependence on others means freedom from any relations with others except those relations which the individual enters voluntarily with a view to his o w n interest. 3. The individual is essentially the proprietor of his own person and capacities, for which he o w e s nothing to society. (MacPherson, p. 263)

These assumptions, as MacPherson shows, are inherent in a market society and underlie the liberal theories of Hobbes, Locke, and other market philosophers. In more recent years, the existentialism of Sartre and the psychoanalysis of Freud have made similar assumptions about the individual and society. These philosophers, like ordinary men in a market economy, understand the nature of man

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

137

to be essentially individualistic, since under the market this is his nature. The assumptions of possessive individualism are peculiarly appropriate to a possessive market society, for they state certain essential facts that are peculiar to that society. The individual in a possessive market society is human in his capacity as proprietor of his own person; . .. his society does consist of a series of market relations . . . However much he may wish it to be otherwise, his humanity does depend on his freedom from any but self interested contractural relations with others. (MacPherson, pp. 271-272, 275)

But a society that accepts this idea of the individual and the group is not one likely to create pleasant, satisfying social relationships. Philosophers as different as Karl Marx and John Stuart Mill have stressed the incompatibility of the attitudes of possessive individualism with the needs of a human society. Valuable human experience, it seems, depends on open, trusting communication based on shared social needs, goals, and interests; it is in this context that the natural rewards of family, love, work, community are enjoyed. But the market demands that members of society identify themselves as individuals who are directed by self-interest and characterized by independence and self-sufficiency. The values and goals of bourgeois society reflect the market principle of just exchange but are also grounded in the idea of the "good life," the achievement of equality, work, community, and mutual respect. The dilemma, then, is apparent: the values of human experience, the norms of the institutional framework of society, the moral order based on social interaction, are all in conflict with the values required by a self-regulating market. This, of course, is not just a philosophical or intellectual conflict, but a conflict in experience, social concepts, and attitudes. As a myth, the Western addresses this conflict and provides a resolution. The Western does not pose the problem as the philosophers do—how can a human society result from a contractural combination of independent, calculating individuals? Rather, the myth asks a question that directly concerns us in our everyday actions—how do we, as autonomous, self-reliant individuals, relate to the society of others, a society of morality and love? In this formulation, both sides of the contradiction are retained, as they are in our society. The myth asks how we can maintain our independence and still be part of society, a problem faced by most of us almost constantly. Our analysis of the Western, then, should tell us how it establishes the context of this problem—what are the components of a society in

138

INDIVIDUALS AND V A L U E S

which this problem is both significant and capable of solution?—and, of course, what is the solution. In the classical plot the distinction between the individual and society is clear and rigorous. The hero is autonomous and unique, and the people of society are kind and decent. But the hero is not a part of society. He is unknown to the people of society, and the narrative tells of his efforts to be accepted by them. In this case, then, the myth takes the theoretical problem of the individual and society and turns it into a practical problem. The hero is not just an independent individual; he is a man who is also alone and outside. He is outside because of his independence, and the action of the story provides the means for him to remain independent and yet no longer be alone. Thus, the inside society/outside society opposition states one form of a basic conceptual and practical concern in our society. A distinction is made between different kinds of men—those who are outside and those who are inside—and the possibility of a relationship between them is created. This, I believe, corresponds o a distinction felt by most Americans, who in striving to become the autonomous individuals demanded by the market feel themselves to be outside of the group to which they want to belong. The hero is also separated from society by the strong/weak opposition. His great strength is the source of his independence, just as the weakness of the people in society is an aspect of their dependence on one another and on the hero. The hero can take care of himself—he fears no one and needs no one—but society cannot take care of itself. This idea of strength is clearly contained in the three assumptions underlying the market concept of the individual. The hero is free from dependence on the will of others, and he is essentially the proprietor of his own person and capacities, for which he owes nothing to society. Society, of course, fulfills neither of these requisites. Thus the image of strength in the Western stresses the social concern with the individual in society; but we should not too closely identify the image with the concern. Virtually all myths and fairy tales involve a strong hero within a group of others who are weak. For an understanding of how the Western myth relates to American society, it is not the strength of the hero that is crucial but other characteristics. Most heroes fear no one; few other than the Western hero need no one. Seen as a shorthand for independence versus dependence, the strong/weak opposition corresponds to an important distinction between kinds of people in our society—those who can take care of themselves and those who cannot. This distinction typically applies to the difference between men and women, and, to almost

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

139

the same degree, between youth and old age. Significantly, in the Western, the image of society is usually that of women and older men. When there are young men who belong to society, they are likely to be small in stature, from the east, or blatant cowards. The heroine, being, it seems, naturally weak and dependent, must rely on the strong man who, by being strong, proves himself worthy of her trust and dependence. In this way women, the bearers of love and morality, are separated conceptually from men, particularly young men, by the strong/weak opposition. To some degree the same is true for older men, the bearers of law, business, and dignity. This conceptual difference between independence and dependence, which in the Western characterizes the difference between men and women, youth and old age, also exists in contemporary social attitudes towards these same groups; in both cases, the difference is felt to be between weakness and strength. Thus, the Western mirrors a distinction that is part of the daily experience of most Americans. We have seen that the hero and the society are separated on the strong/weak axis as well as on the inside society/outside society axis. But the villains are also strong and opposed to society; they share this classification with the hero. Like the hero, their strength makes them independent; they do not need the people of society. They are typically the only men in the story who are of the same general age as the hero. Sometimes, as in Shane, one of the villains is an exceptionally tough older man, but this is rare among the most successful versions of the classical plot. Usually both the hero and the villains are young, strong, self-reliant men, while society consists of weak women and older men. This classification extends even to the women who are lovers or associates of the villains, such as Rhonda in The Far Country or Frenchy in Destry Rides Again. These women seem strong and villainous, but they prove themselves to be truly social, both through their love for the hero and their weakness. They seem to be able to take care of themselves, but they cannot and are killed. Thus, the strong (young men)/weak (women, older men) dichotomy is retained. Both the hero and the villains are strong and independent; and often, because of this, they share a special kind of mutual respect not extended to the members of society. But if the villains relate to the hero through strength, how do they relate to society? Where do they belong on the inside/outside axis? Before addressing that question, let us turn to the third key opposition, between good and bad. This distinction separates the villains from the hero and society. In the classical plot, it is almost always coded in economic terms—the bad guys are much richer

140

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

than the good guys. The villains are successful ranchers (Shane), saloon owners (Dodge City, San Antonio, Destry RidesAgain), businessmen (Union Pacific, Bend of the River), officials (Destry Rides Again, Far Country, Vera Cruz), while the people of society are struggling settlers (Bend of the River), farmers (Shane, Canyon Passage), townspeople (Dodge City, Cimarron). Good and bad do not always correspond to rich and poor, however, since there are many films in which the good guys are also quite successful—Cimarron, Duel in the Sun, The Far Country, Chi sum—just as there are films in which the villains are poor—Bend of the River, Vera Cruz, Canyon Passage. The good/bad distinction does not separate people by their success at making money but rather by their motivations for trying to make money. In the classical Western plot, conflict arises over land and the resources of land. While both the villains and society want to appropriate the land and its resources, they have different reasons—the good people want the land to build a society with families, churches, schools, law, and business, the villains want the land and its resources for personal gain. This theme is reiterated throughout the classical Western. In The Far Country, for example, the people of society are as rich as the villains; they have all made huge gold strikes. But whereas the villains want to exploit the land and the people and take the gold away, the good people want to build a town with churches and schools in the middle of the Yukon wilderness. In Vera Cruz, this theme is taken to its logical conclusion—the villains are the aristocratic court of Maximillian, taking the exploited wealth of Mexico back to Europe, while the good people are the peasants of Mexico who want to take control of their own society. On a smaller scale, the two main characters of this film are hired gunfighters; one chooses to eschew personal profit in order to help the peasants, becoming the hero, while the other chooses to betray the peasants for his own interests, becoming the villain. The good/bad opposition, then, separates the people who are concerned only with themselves from those who are concerned with others, and this distinction is clearly understood and commonly used in our society to classify kinds of people. Once again, it is a division that corresponds to a basic split between social experience and the theories of a market economy and possessive individualism. The market will work only if every person seeks his own interest and enters into relations with others only after rational calculation based on an expectation of personal gain. But, of course, social experience tells us that this model can neither explain nor provide satisfying relationships based on love and friendship. In the classical Western, the villains represent unbridled market self-interest. Not

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

141

only their desires but their methods reflect this; out of supreme self-concern, they are capable of betraying trusts and attacking from ambush. On the other hand, the people of society represent social values—family, love, morality—and their code of honesty and fair play, even against evil, is derived from a basic respect and concern for others. But this social concern, both in the Western and in contemporary consciousness, is fundamentally associated with the market society as the ideal form of social relations. It is not a question of the market versus society but of a decent, social market versus an individual, exploitative market. In other words, tfie good/bad opposition does not reflect a conflict in social theory but in social experience. Both the villains and the settlers (or their equivalents) want to establish a market society. The villains represent the individualistic aspect of it, necessary but vicious and cruel, while the settlers represent the social aspect, decent and kind if helpless and unsuccessful. Both aspects are part of our daily social experience, and both are necessary for a market society to exist. Yet the conflict is deep, since it rests on the fundamental distinction between individual and society. Like the hero, the villains are individuals, the kind required by the theory and institutions of the market; they seek their own self-interest, they are free from dependence on the will of others, and they are proprietors of their own persons and capacities. They are strong and independent. But unlike the hero, they are usually inside of society, or almost inside. Villains are typically involved in the institutions of societysaloons, business, ranches, and so forth—or at least they are somewhat identified with these institutions through their dress, interests, and background. There are exceptions, where a villain is as much or more outside of society than the hero—Cole in Bend of the River, Bragg in Canyon Passage, the gunman in Hombre. However, in each of these films there is another villain who is closely identified with society—Hendricks, the merchant; George, the gentleman and sophisticate; Favor, the Indian agent. Though the villains are associated with social institutions, they are never completely in society, and here we must be clear as to what we mean by "society." We have been using the term in two different senses—social institutions and social interactions, market and morality. These two uses reflect the basic problem of the Western: how are they compatible? Society, properly speaking, consists of both market and morality as far as the classical Western is concerned. The villain, though he is both physically located and financially involved in society, is not fully a part of it since he does not share its morality. The hero, on the contrary, is usually a stranger to society, involved in neither its institutions nor its

142

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

interaction. During the course of the narrative he often accepts both, but in the opening description he is truly outside of society, as in Shane. Logan in Canyon Passage is probably the most serious exception to this, yet even here, where the hero begins as a businessman engaged to be married, his difference from other heroes is only one of degree; he is involved in society, but in a very independent, almost scornful way, unlike veryone else in the village, and this point is stressed repeatedly throughout the film. The primary function of the inside/outside society opposition is to separate the hero from society; this axis does not directly relate to the villains and therefore they have no fixed position on it. In the vengeance plot, many of the villains are outside of society, but in the classical Western the villains have a fairly well-entrenched position on this axis, more or less in the middle. In Lévi-Strauss' terms, they mediate between the hero and society, sharing properties of both, and are therefore neither completely in nor completely out of the social body. It is through the villains that the hero and society bridge the differences separating them. The picture that emerges is this: the hero and the villains are individuals who are strong, independent, and self-interested. The hero is outside of society, and his self-interest is an aspect of his being alone and self-reliant. The villains, however, are a part of society, and their self-interest is destructive of social needs and values. Since individualism and self-interest are required by market-centered institutions, villains are inherent in society and society is weak compared to their strength. This situation is expressed in the classical Western through the three oppositions—good/bad, inside society/outside society, strong/ weak—each of which provides a classification of differences between people based on the fundamental contradiction between individual and society in a market economy. The fourth opposition, civilization/wilderness, I will consider later in a more general context. N o w let us turn to the narrative to see h o w the classical Western structures interaction between the different kinds of people defined by the three oppositions above. First, for convenience, I will list again the functions of the classical plot. 1. The hero enters a social group. 2. The hero is unknown to the society. 3. The hero is revealed to have an exceptional ability. 4. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero; the hero is given a special status.

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

143

5. The society does not completely accept the hero. 6. There is a conflict of interests between the villains and the society. 7. The villains are stronger than the society; the society is weak. 8. There is a strong friendship or respcet between the hero and a villain. 9. The villains threaten the society. 10. The hero avoids involvement in the conflict. 11. The villains endanger a friend of the hero's. 12. The hero fights the villains. 13. The hero defeats the villains. 14. The society is safe. 15. The society accepts the hero. 16. The hero loses or gives up his special status. These sixteen functions outline the narrative, though not all of them appear in every story. The meaning of the narrative is not contained in the list but in the structure of the functions, the series of narrative sequences that move the action from beginning to end and explain the changes in the relations between characters. It is this structure that we must exhibit if we are to understand the Western as a model for action. To do so, we must identify the narrative sequences within the list of functions. This is not a particularly difficult task. Functions 2, 3 and 4 form a sequence I shall call the "Status" sequence. The hero demonstrates his strength, revealing himself to be a gunfighter, and he is given a special status by the people of society—the status of a gunfighter. The change from being unknown to being known with a specific status is caused by the hero's ability with a gun. As a gunfighter, the hero is regarded as a man to fear and respect, but he is not accepted by society—his special status prevents it. Functions 1 and 5 comprise the beginning and end of another sequence, the sequence "Outside." The hero enters society but is not accepted by it. The reason for this change, the cause of society's rejection, is that the hero is not a member of society and his strength gives him a special position outside of it. The middle term, or the action of the "Outside" sequence, is the sequence formed by functions 2, 3 and 4, the "Status" sequence. The "Outside" sequence, then, explains the change from the hero's entering society to his not being accepted by it. He is rejected not because he is unknown, not because he is strong, and not because he has special status, but because of the conjunction of all three. This is a case in which

144

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

one sequence is embedded in another. 1. Outside,

The hero enters a social group. 2. The hero is unknown to the society.

(

3. The hero is revealed to have an exceptional ability. 4. The hero is given a special status. These sequences essentially completely they acceptstate the two hero. of the 5. Theare society does notdescriptive;

oppositions and set the stage for further action. In the "Outside" sequence the hero reveals his strength—his individuality and independence—and is set apart from society, a clear reiteration of the strong/weak dichotomy. Both functions 1 and 2 state that the hero is outside of society, and the sequence reinforces and extends this classification. According to the sequence, the hero is not only circumstantially outside but characteristically outside. The sequences "Status" and "Outside" restate and explain these two oppositions without developing them. If the strong/weak and inside/outside distinctions are clearly made without it, the sequences are not really necessary. In Union Pacific and San Antonio the heroes are not unknown, though they are strong and outside of society. Logan, in Canyon Passage, is a member of society who is well known; and for this reason the dialogue is used to stress his difference. "Weakness," another sequence, is formed by functions 6, 7 and 9 and shows how the villains, because of their strength and society's weakness, threaten the survival of society. There is a natural conflict based, at one level, on the good/bad opposition and, at a deeper level, on the contradiction between institutions and human values in a market society. A rancher tries to drive away farmers (Shane), a judge tries to rob miners of their claims (The Far Country), a criminal tries to start an Indian war by running guns (Northwest Mounted Police). In each case, if the villains succeed, the people of society will either be killed or forced to abandon their homes—society will be destroyed. But society is weak and helpless before the strength of the villains. Torrey is easily killed by Wilson in Shane; Dusty the miner is killed and Rube the sheriff is humiliated by the villains in The Far Country; Matt Cole is ambushed and killed in Dodge City. After these defeats, the survival of society is doubtful—the farmers and the miners begin to leave in Shane and The Far Country; the town will die in Dodge City; the fort will be destroyed in Northwest Mounted Police. The classical plot is the only version of the Western myth in which the villains' desire for personal gain inevitably threatens the very existence of society;

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

145

and this threat, as the "Weakness" sequence tells us, derives from the conflict between strong villains and a weak society. This is not a startling revelation; nevertheless, if our structural analysis is successful, it will help to clarify the interrelationships between our conceptual classifications and familiar concrete images. The "Weakness" sequence advances the story from being a simple conflict between society and the villains, good and bad, by showing how the villains threaten the very survival of society. This is important, because it shows that society is incomplete and insufficient as well as weak. Villains are inherent in society and, if opposed only by society, will inevitably destroy its morality and h u m a n values. The Western myth concerns the hero, and "Weakness" refines the situation in which he will act. He is outside and strong, the villains are inside and strong, and society is weak and threatened. Two other sequences, which do not always appear, further develop and refine the situation. In the first the hero is unknown; he and the villain demonstrate their strength; they share a mutual respect and often friendship. In this sequence, "Friendship," the beginning and end are functions 2 and 8, and the middle term, or action, is a combination of functions 3 and 7. The sequence shows that, because of their unusual strength, the hero and the villain are quite similar and have a special kind of relationship—they are natural brothers, so to speak. The hero changes from being u n k n o w n to being respected, and he respects the villain, w h o is the only other strong character in the story. This sequence appears in most of the films I have studied—Cimarron, Union Pacific, Duel in the Sun, Yellow Sky, Whispering Smith, Shane (to a degree), Bend of the River, The Far Country, Vera Cruz. The hero is not always unknown to the villain; in Cimarron, Union Pacific and Whispering Smith, they are old friends. This "Friendship" sequence underscores the mutual strength of the hero and villain and their difference from society. It stresses that these two men are individuals and, as such, understand one another. Their independence makes them capable of a special relationship of respect a n d / o r friendship. And with only one or two exceptions, in the classical plot only these two men seem to be able to have such a relationship. The villains cannot trust each other, and the people of society are weak and undependable. While there is love between the hero and a woman, real friendship or respect apart from love exists almost exclusively between the hero and the villain. It is as though only independent and strong individuals can truly share respect and become friends. In the classical plot, this notion is used mainly to distinguish the hero and the villain

146

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

and to set up their eventual conflict. But in the professional plot, as we shall see, this view of friendship is developed into a major conceptual resource of the Western. The second sequence that refines the situation consists of functions 10, 11 and 12, in which the hero attempts to remain aloof from the conflict between the villain and society. He is outside and independent, it is not his fight. But he has made a friend—Wash in Destry Rides Again, young Harry Cole in Dodge City, Starret in Shane, Ben in The Far Country, Jesse in Duel in the Sun—who is killed, harmed, or threatened by the villains. After this, the hero abandons his neutrality and fights. The sequence, "Commitment," stresses more than any other the independence and self-interest of the hero. He is not particularly concerned with the decency and morality of society or with their destruction; he only decides to fight for society when he becomes personally involved through an attack made on a friend who is already a part of society. At this point, his own self-interest becomes a factor. Strictly speaking, of course, it doesn't. If he were truly independent, he could ignore his friend; but in the classical Western, having a friend associates the hero with society, as the "Commitment" sequence shows. The hero is not an absolute individual, capable of remaining completely outside; total independence cannot be maintained. He has need of the social values of friendship and loyalty, and these values require that he become involved with society. It is necessary if he is to become fully human. The "Commitment" sequence informs us that the individual needs society, just as in another sequence we will see that society needs the individual. Some films do not contain the "Commitment" sequence — Cimarron, Union Pacific, San Antonio, Bend of the River — but perhaps it is fair to say that the best classical Westerns (such as Shane, Dodge City, Destry Rides Again, Duel in the Sun, Yellow Sky, The Far Country, Vera Cruz, Canyon Passage, and Hombre) generally include it. Without this sequence the hero's commitment to the values of society would have to be present from the start. When the hero has already accepted social values, even though society has not accepted him—as in Bend of the River—the oppositions are weakened and the force of the narrative is weakened. When this sequence appears, it establishes the first strong connection between the hero and society and motivates the action that climaxes the narrative. Without it, both the connection and the motivation are assumed but not demonstrated, Thus, the "Commitment" sequence sharpens the oppositions and crystallizes the penultimate relationship between hero and society. It need not appear; the information it contains is not completely necessary, since the decisive action

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

147

concerning that relationship takes place elsewhere. But its presence makes the film stronger, and in the professional plot the ideas of friendship and loyalty underlying both the "Commmitment" and "Friendship" sequences are developed into a central aspect of the narrative. The discussion of these sequences may seemingly contain contradictions. I have noted that the hero has a friend in society, while showing that the only real occurrence of respect and sometimes friendship is between the hero and the villain. But these statements do not conflict, since the hero's friend in society is a friend almost in the sense of a pet dog who is pleasant but ineffectual. Usually this friend is categorically different from the hero—in Destry Rides Again and The Far Country he is old, in Dodge City he is a child, and in Vera Cruz he is black. These friends are close to the hero but dependent on him. Except perhaps for Starret in Shane, only the villaiij is portrayed as a possible equal to the hero; therefore, mutual respect or friendship based on such respect is only possible between these two men. Functions 12, 3 and 13 comprise an obvious but important sequence. The fight is the climax of the narrative and plays a critical role in the structure. The entire sequence, "Fight," is also an action that causes other changes—that is, the sequence itself is embedded in other sequences. Probably the most interesting thing about the sequence is that the hero fights and defeats the villains alone. He has only his strength to rely on, and it is sufficient. Usually, the hero is all alone—Shane, The Far Country, Yellow Sky—and wins through remarkable ability. Sometimes he has help, but it is always his strength that makes the difference. After the fight and the victory, society is safe. This change is explained by the sequence "Safe"— function 9, "Fight," function 14. 9.

T h e villains threaten the society. 12. T h e hero fights the villains. 3. T h e h e r o is revealed to h a v e an e x c e p t i o n a l

! 14.

ability. 13. T h e hero defeats the villains. T h e society is safe.

The "Fight" sequence causes the change from function 9 to function 14—the hero's fight and victory explains the saving of society. The important point is that the hero is alone. The sequence shows how the hero saves society by his own ability, independently of others. The villains threaten society, and only the hero's strength prevents them from destroying it. This sequence, then, demonstrates the critical importance of the individual to society. W e have seen that

148

INDIVIDUALS AND V A L U E S

society inevitably produces individuals within it, but that they are villains. Society is powerless against these villains and can only be helped by another individual w h o is outside society. Without the hero, society cannot survive, yet it cannot produce him; it can only produce villains. T h e hero must be separate from society. While he is separate, he needs the social values of friendship and love; but if he w e r e part of society, he w o u l d be w e a k and dependent. His strength comes from relying only on himself, not on others or on social institutions; and, of course, it is this strength that is necessary to society. The sequence " S a f e , " together with the sequence "Commitment," outlines the basic relationship between the individual and society as it appears in the classical Western. The hero's characteristics of strength, independence, and self-reliance are not truly social values and do not exist in society per se; but without access to these abilities, society cannot e x i s t On the other hand, the social values of love, law, friendship, and f a m i l y are not truly individual values, but without them the individual cannot be fulfilled. Thus, the existence of society and the happiness of the individual depend upon a negotiation between the t w o positions or sets of values; and this negotiation centers on the threat of the villains, for it is this threat that disturbs the separation and makes the interaction both possible and necessary. The sequence " S a f e " indicates through its action that a weaker group can only be successfully helped by independence and self-reliance. If society is to be saved—or, in more general terms, if others are to be aided—the individual must act for them, not with them. Efforts to work with a group through mutual support are doomed to failure, just as society fails to defend itself from the villains. If an individual—in the generic sense—is to help others, he must be an individual in the market sense; that is, he must depend only on himself and act as he k n o w s best. Reliance and trust in a group will only weaken him. He must act independently and do what is best for the people he wants to help, even if, as in Shane, they themselves oppose it. His strength and thus his ability to succeed depends upon his autonomy and self-reliance. Successful acts are individual acts; only the w e a k and unsuccessful, albeit decent and kind, work with and depend upon a group. The narrative of the classical Western, particularly the sequence " S a f e , " explains how the fight successfully helps a group. The image of this specific act involves violence; and thus, of course, it is possible that the violence itself should be part of the action model. But while the violence adds excitement to the story, it is not, I believe, usually

149

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

included in the meaning of the fight. This meaning involves independence and self-sufficieny, and the fight is usually interpreted in this way. Violence makes the meaning very clear, and is useful as a plot device; yet the same point can be made by other actions, as, for example, the hero's not fighting in The Big Country. Violence is sometimes taken literally and applied as such, but it is no more part of the meaning of the Western than it is part of the meaning of Shakespeare, except insofar as violence is a central and inevitable aspect of the conflict between individual and society in a market economy. Violence is a central and inevitable aspect of our society, and thus the Western is not encouraging it but honestly expressing it. In another sense, the Western is probably less about violence than Shakespeare, for in a myth the characters primarily represent concepts or principles and appear only secondarily, if at all, as real people; but in dramatic or narrative literature, the characters primarily represent real psychological beings and express principles to a smaller degree. Violence in a myth is generally concerned with opposing or reconciling principles, while in literature violence truly exists between people and is consequently more convincing and more deeply felt. "Acceptance," the next sequence, further expands the consequences of the fight. Now the sequence " S a f e " appears as the cause of the change. 5.

The society does not completely accept the hero. 9. The villains threaten the society. 12. The hero fights the villains. 3. The hero is revealed to have an

"Accept- ance"

!

15.

exceptional ability. 11. The hero defeats the villains. 14. The society is safe. The society accepts the hero.

His saving of society explains the hero's final acceptance. The threat of the villains, the fight, and the victory are now seen as means by which the hero can overcome his initial rejection by society and be accepted. He is originally outside of society, a gunfighter who is respected but not approved of. The use of his strength demonstrates to the people of society that they do need his ability and he is therefore accepted by them. As a model for action, the sequence " A c c e p t a n c e " refines and completes the sequence " S a f e . " T h e inside/outside opposition reflects a distinction felt in our society between those who are accepted

150

INDIVIDUALS AND V A L U E S

by a group and those who are not. This distinction is most meaningful when it separates the individual from the group that he either wants to be accepted into or more respected by, since it reflects a basic conceptual and practical problem created by our market-oriented society. The classical Western raises this problem, and the sequence "Acceptance" presents a solution to it. The individual is outside, not accepted, because he is different, particularly because of his independence. He can become accepted by helping the group and proving to them that they need him; he accomplishes this not by joining the group and helping them to work together but by becoming even more independent, working alone, relying only on himself, while attempting to aid and succor the group. In this way he is more likely to succeed; he will gain more respect, and the group will realize that they do need him and will accept him with a special appreciation. The myth attempts to resolve the problem of the individual and society by stressing individuality. This is curious, since nonacceptance results from individuality, and the problem is for the individual to become accepted by the group. But it is understandable, because the myth is not a theoretical effort to analyze an institutional contradiction but a conceptual and unconscious effort to live with the contradiction by providing a model of action which can utilize and overcome it. To this end, the Western creates a situation in which extreme individuality is the reasonable and inevitable solution to the problem of the individual and the group—the problem of acceptance. This is one reason why the settling of the American West provides such a successful context for a myth concerned with this issue. In a scientific, skeptical society, myths cannot depend upon magic and supernatural events and must have a more realistic base for the narrative action. The West and its characters really did exist, and in this setting extreme individualism as a successful resource is convincing and acceptable, even if it is inaccurate because of its mythical dimension. This context allows for a clear and acceptable image of society in a weakened and threatened situation. In a myth concerned with a social contradiction—in this case, the individual and society—neither pole of the contradiction can be abandoned or rejected. Rather, they must be made compatible. The classical Western attempts to make them compatible by stressing individualism in a situation where it is necessary and finally accepted gladly by society. "Equality," the final sequence, is concerned with the hero's change in status. This change is explained by the sequence "Acceptance" and all the action embedded in it.

151

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

4. The hero is given a special status. 5. The society does not completely accept the hero. 9. The villains threaten the society. • 12. The hero fights the villains. 3. The hero is revealed to have "Equal--! "Accept"Safe"< "Fight' an exceptional ability. ity" ance" 13. The hero defeats the villains. 14. The society is safe. 15. The society accepts the hero. 16. The hero loses or gives up his special status.

After he has used his strength to save society and been accepted, the hero gives up the special status that was awarded him because of his ability as a gunfighter. He is still respected and admired as a special person, but he no longer maintains the role that made him different and gave him unique status. He marries, settles down, a n d gives u p h i s g u n s ( T h e Far Country,

Bend of the River,

Yellow

Sky, San Antonio); he marries, becomes a businessman, and gives up his guns (Union Pacific); he leaves the society (Cimarron, Dodge City, Shane, C a n y o n Passage);

or h e d i e s (Duel in the Sun,

Hombre,

The Plainsman). The "Equality" sequence serves as a frame to the core of the narrative action and may be the most typically American aspect of the myth. Function 4, the hero's status—together with the reliance on and acceptance of the hero—indicates willingness to create and depend on an elite or aristocracy of strength in times of trouble. Although he is not a part of the group, the hero is respected and feared as a protector and defender with special rights and privileges. Fear and respect is also given to the villain with whom the hero must contend, in a realm of action inaccessible to ordinary men. This aristocratic tendency is clearly compatible with the individual/society distinction—for if "the individual is essentially the proprietor of his own person and capacities, for which he owes nothing to society," then all accomplishments are essentially individual and it is natural to depend on strong individuals to resolve problems concerning everyone. Of course, most myths involve special men performing tasks that exceed the capacities of ordinary men. What is particularly interesting about the Western is where these men come from and how they are treated. In many myths, such as the Greek or the Icelandic sagas, the hero is an aristocrat by birth; in others, particularly fairy tales, he rises through his exploits from the common people to the nobility. But the Western heroes are not initially a part of society, as are the heroes of most myths, and their social stratum is if anything below that of the people for w h o m they fight. They are typically

152

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

saddle tramps, outlaws, or hired gunfighters. In the Western the hero belongs nowhere, he is fighting just to enter a society. In doing so, he too rises from a common origin to an aristocratic position; but after he has won his entry and defended the social group, he does something that few if any other mythical heroes do: he gives up his aristocratic status and chooses to become just another member of society. He remains a special person, a leader in the eyes of the people, yet he abandons all the ceremony and institutional trappings that might insure a unique, powerful position for him. Thus, in the classical Western we have an aristocratic tendency with a democratic bias. Under threatening circumstances, it is reasonable and proper to rely on a strong and elite group of men; but when the danger has passed, they must become equal with everyone else, a requirement, in fact, they have been fighting to insure. As a model for action that relates to the separation between strong and weak, this sequence indicates that the strong must protect and defend the weak but that they have no special rights or powers over them. The weak must be protected from duties and responsibilities beyond their capacities and from attacks on their persons or properties; but otherwise, they are the equal of those who are strong and must therefore be respected and deferred to. Now if in this description we substitute " w o m e n " and " m e n " for "weak" and "strong," we will have a fairly accurate account of the relations between men and women in American society, at least until the mid-fifties, when the classical Western began to disappear. Although foreign visitors have frequently remarked on the unusual degree of respect and power given to American women in personal relationships with men, especially in the family, women's liberation has correctly pointed out the prevalence of attitudes that systematically deny women access to institutional positions of real power and responsibility. These attitudes assume that women are neither interested in nor strong enough for such positions; as women, they are not capable of the tough-minded rationality required for holding power and must, for their own sakes, be protected from it. More than anything else, the sequence "Equality" describes the kind of society validated by the classical Western. W e have discussed this society before, but it will be helpful to reiterate its properies here. It is a society that stresses the value of the family, seeks the rule of law, and trusts in the legal structure of American democracy. Its members believe in the institutions of the market economy; they respect hard work and business, even though they recognize that business is often corrupt. They respect religious beliefs, without giving them great stress; they recognize that violence

INDIVIDUALS AND VALUES

153

is sometimes necessary, but do not accept it as a way of life, and desire a peaceful community where violence is the exception. Above all, it is an egalitarian society where no one, except a villain, sets himself apart from others. All are legally and morally equal, and though abilities differ everyone is assumed to be decent and kind. This is the society the hero chooses to join by surrendering his unique position of status and power; and this renunciation is necessary—if the hero did not give up his status, society would be different. If he maintained his position, the hero would change its egalitarian nature and create a powerful and undemocratic elite. This would be unacceptable to society and to the hero. The social values are clear. While they may involve difficult contradictions, such as that between individual and society, they are nevertheless firm and respected as ideal foundations for a good community. This is the bourgeois ideal of a society based on interaction and communication as well as the concepts and actions of market individualism. Later, in the professional plot, this image of society virtually disappears, having undergone the transformations expressed in the vengeance variation and the transition theme. In terms of the classical plot, however, we must recognize that the change described by the sequence "Equality"—the natural claim to status and power followed by the voluntary relinquishing of it—constitutes a remarkable narrative tribute to the strength of this bourgeois view of the "good society."

e IncLrsricLma-ls -ZLgpedxist TTa.lnj.es: The "Xzerig'csizice Ha ria-tion

The oppositions in the vengeance variation are virtually the same as in the classical plot. The inside/outside distinction separates the hero from society; there remains a distinction between individual and group, with the individual necessarily outside the social body. The villains still have an ambiguous location on this axis, though in each film their position is more clearly defined. In Winchester '73, The Naked Spur, The Searchers, they are outlaws; in The Man From Laramie, One-Eyed Jacks, Hang 'Em High, they are respected members of society. The strong/weak opposition separates men from women and young from old; the individuals are strong and the society is weak. Finally, the good/bad opposition continues to separate those with social values from those with self-serving values. In most respects, the vengeance plot is simply a variation of the classical Western, hence its name. The oppositions and the images which code them are the same; the narrative action, while different, establishes similar relationships between the separate kinds of people. There are, however, slight changes in these relationships that become more significant than they might at first appear when seen in the context of the succeeding forms of the Western. These relationships are determined by the narrative sequences that structure the action of the vengeance variation. Since the oppositions do not change significantly from the classical plot, we can move directly to an analysis of how these conceptual differences are related through the action of the narrative structure. This action is contained in the functions that outline the vengeance variation. 154

INDIVIDUALS A G A I N S T V A L U E S

155

For reference and review, I shall list these functions again here. 1. The hero is or was a member of society. 2. The villains do harm to the hero and to the society. 3. The society is unable to punish the villains. 4. The hero seeks vengeance. 5. The hero goes outside of society. 6. The hero is revealed to have a special ability. 7. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero; the hero is given a special status. 8. A representative of society asks the hero to give up his revenge. 9. The hero gives up his revenge. 10. The hero fights the villains. 11. The hero defeats the villains. 12. The hero gives up his special status. The first narrative sequence consists of functions 2, 3 and 4. I will call this sequence "Weakness," since it has the same function in the vengeance plot as it does in the classical plot. I will label other sequences in the vengeance story with the names of classical sequences, whenever appropriate, to show the essential similarity of the two plots. The "Weakness" sequence explains why the hero desires revenge and why he must seek it alone. The villains harm both the hero and society, but society can do nothing about it. The institutions of justice are inadequate to correct the wrong or punish the guilty. If retribution is to be exacted, the hero must do it himself, alone. In this sequece the hero, as individual, asserts his independence from the group. Since society is weak and unable to fulfill its obligations to its members, the individual must rely only on himself if justice is to be done. The similarity to the classical plot is evident—the individual must do what society should but cannot. But there is a difference. In the classical Western, the hero's independence is necessary to society; it helps him join the group. Yet in the vengeance variation his independence separates him from society, as the sequence "Outside" shows.

"Outside" • "Weakness' 5.

The hero is or was a member of society. 2. The villains do harm to the hero and to society. 3. The society is unable to punish the villains. 4. The hero seeks vengeance. The hero goes outside of society.

Here "Weakness" explains the change from the hero's being in society to his leaving it. In contrast with the classical hero, the

156

INDIVIDUALS AGAINST VALUES

vengeance hero begins as a member of society who willingly accepting its values. It is the villains' attack and his desire for justice that force him outside. The hero leaves the social group because the institutions of society cannot support the values it proclaims. In the classical plot the social institutions had not been established, and the strength and independence of the hero was required to found them; in this case, society is not threatened, it is simply inadequate. The hero believes in its values, but he must assert his independence and separate himself from society if he is to act on them. A conflict exists not between independence and social values, as in the classical plot, but within the values themselves, or between the values and the institutions; and this conflict forces the hero to become autonomous and self-sufficient, thereby putting himself in opposition to society and its values. In seeking revenge, the hero becomes very much like the men he is chasing. He becomes a skilled gunfighter, and he ignores or breaks the law. In three of the films with this plot—Stagecoach, One-Eyed Jacks, Nevada Smith— the hero is a known outlaw, and in at least two others—The Man From Laramie and The Searchers— he is arrested for murder. In this way, the hero becomes a man with special status, a gunfighter outside of society. The sequence "Status" explains this development. The hero leaves society—function 5—where he was accepted as an equal; he demonstrates his unusual strength and independence—function 6; and he is recognized as having a special status, a man to be respected and feared—function 7. This sequence is essentially the same as the sequence "Status" of the classical plot, except that previously the hero was unknown whereas now he is known to have left society with a specific intent that has led him to develop his strength and acquire his status. The effect is the same, however, since the vengeance hero almost always performs his exploits in a group to which he is unknown. Except for the hero's motivation, which we as viewers understand, the situation at this stage in the vengeance plot is very similar to the opening of the classical plot: the hero is a man of special strength and independence in a group he does not belong to and in which he is unknown. An obvious exception to this analysis is One-Eyed Jacks, in which the hero is an outlaw by choice, not by circumstances as in Stagecoach or Nevada Smith. Rio is never in society, and his status as a gunfighter is established from the start. After a robbery, he is betrayed by his partner who escapes with the money and leaves him to be arrested. For this betrayal he seeks vengeance. There the sequences "Outside" and "Status" do not apply, since functions 1 and 5 are not present; but the sequence "Weakness" applies, and

INDIVIDUALS AGAINST VALUES

157

together with the status of the hero, which is clearly demonstrated, it establishes the same basic situation present in other films where all three sequences apply—the hero is strong and independent, outside of society, and seeking revenge. Like the classical hero, he is not initially a believer in social values and he does not expect society to punish the villain, yet in the end he makes the same choice other vengeance heroes do. In The Searchers, all the functions apply, but they do not all apply to the same person or to the same degree. The Searchers is unusual in that there are two heroes; perhaps it is more accurate to say that the hero role is shared by two men. Ethan Edwards is a member of the family but not exactly a member of society when the film begins. He has not been seen for years and is not particularly welcome. Martin, however, is a definite member of the family and of society. When Indians take the young girl Debbie and kill the rest of the family, both men leave the settlement on a long hunt to find her. Edwards is already a skilled fighter, and Martin becomes one during the search. Thus, Edwards' position is similar to Rio's in One-Eyed Jacks—he is (almost) outside of the group, he is probably a thief (he has money that was probably stolen), and he has the status of a gunfighter. On the other hand, Martin fulfills the role of the typical vengeance hero; he is forced to leave society and become strong and independent after an attack and abduction that the officials of society—the rangers—are unable to punish or restore. With minor modifications, the other vengeance films also satisfy the opening sequences. These sequences place the hero in a situation similar to that of the classical hero and provide the impetus for the central actions of the narrative. Often, indeed, the initial sequences are not actually present in the film at all: the hero's past in society, the harm done to him, and his reputation as a gunfighter are described in the dialogue rather than dramatized. The basic situation differs from the classical plot in that the hero is already motivated to fight—for himself, not for society. His desire for revenge—that is, for justice—has forced him out of society and brought him to oppose its laws and institutions. He has taken the law into his own hands to become "judge, jury, and executioner." The hero must establish his strength and independence but also accept and be accepted by society. In the classical story, it is easy—society needs the hero's strength and, by being strong and self-reliant, he also makes peace with society. But in the vengeance variation, it is more difficult—the hero must establish his independence by doing what society cannot, punishing the villains; yet in doing so he risks decisively separating himself from the values of

158

INDIVIDUALS A G A I N S T V A L U E S

society and becoming a calculating killer. There are various solutions to this problem, and they usually involve the order in which the two central sequences, "Commitment" and "Fight," appear. The sequence "Commitment" consists of functions 4, 8 and 9. While intent on vengeance, the hero is confronted by a member of society who points out his individualistic, antisocial behavior. After this, the hero sooner or later abandons his hatred and his search for revenge. It is not always clear that he gives them up because of this talk—in The Man From Laramie, The Searchers, Nevada Smith, the action takes place long after the conversation—but this discussion has necessarily taken place, and it is remembered as the only time the hero was "wrong" and is the only available reason for his refusal to complete his mission. The member of society who berates the hero varies from film to film—usually it is a girlfriend, once it is a priest. In The Man From Laramie it is an old man who is not a member of society in the town but whose age and dignity make him wise, respected, and moral. In The Searchers, Martin accuses Ethan of blind hatred, and both Martin's girlfriend and her family ask the two men to give up the search. This sequence stresses the hero's fundamental commitment to social values. His father has been killed, his brother has been killed, he has been sent to prison for five years, he has been hung, his mother has been skinned alive; but he is willing to forego punishing those responsible for the sake of his own moral and social conscience, or for the sake of a woman. In the vengeance variation, as in the classical plot, there is no compromise with the basic social attitude—the society of law, family, and morality is good, and the hero always chooses it in the end. But while the social attitude is firm, there is a compromise with social behavior, which is perhaps the most interesting change from the classical story. The classical hero managed to be both individualistic and social, because they were compatible. In the vengeance plot, the hero also manages to have his cake and eat it too, although his two basic desires—revenge and social acceptance—are directly opposed. How he does this involves the w a y the next sequence is placed and fulfilled in the narrative. This is the familiar "Fight" sequence, in this case functions 10, 6 and 11. As in the classical plot, this sequence conclusively demonstrates the hero's strength and independence. In the vengeance story it also signifies the completion of his goal, the punishing of the guilty. Thus, the relationship of the "Fight" to the "Commitment" sequence is of great importance to our analysis. In the context of meanings we have developed, they would seem to be mutually exclusive: if one is satisfied, then the other cannot be. But in fact, except in one film, they are both

INDIVIDUALS AGAINST VALUES

159

satisfied. This is achieved by the manner in which they overlap one another, the number of times Fight appears, and the ambiguity of the idea of the villains' defeat. The most straightforward handling of the problem appears in Stagecoach and One-Eyed Jacks, where first "Commitment" is satisfied and then "Fight." In both films, the hero responds to female entreaties and gives up his desire for revenge; then, through unfortunate (fortunate?) circumstances, he is placed in a position where he must fight the villains, whom he kills. In this case, the hero's intentions are good (social), but against his will he is forced to conclude his revenge, by which he also demonstrates his individuality. In Nevada Smith and Hang 'Em High, another trick is used. The hero is after more than one man—three in the first film, seven in the second. It is therefore possible for the sequence "Fight" to apply to two or more villains, and for the sequence "Commitment" to apply to the rest. For example, Max Sand (Nevada Smith) kills two of the men who skinned his mother but spares the third. The ambiguity of "defeat" is also utilized in these films. Sand fights the third villain, wounds him, has him at his mercy; then, with the killer begging to be killed, the hero throws down his gun and rides away, leaving him alive. Thus we feel that, while the hero has "defeated" the last villain, he has also done the "moral" thing by controlling his obsession with vengeance. The same thing occurs in Hang 'Em High. At least one of the men in the group who unsuccessfully hung the hero is not killed, but serves some time in jail (a defeat) and is then freed. A similar kind of ambiguity resolves the problem in The Man From Laramie. The hero is advised of his antisocial fanaticism, but ignores the advice. He finds the man responsible for his brother's death, captures him, tries to kill him in cold blood; but he cannot and lets him go. Conveniently, hostile Indians, who are waiting just around the bend, kill the villain a few seconds later. Thus, once again, the hero "defeats" the villain, though he does not carry out his revenge; 4. 8.

"Commit ment" 1

S^t" 9.

The hero seeks vengeance. A representative of society asks the hero to give up his revenge. ( |

10

v " ^er0 iUains6. The hero is revealed to have a special ability. 11. The hero defeats the villains. The hero gives up his revenge.

Finally, in The Naked Spur and The Searchers, fighting and killing the villain will not suffice for the task of revenge to be accomplished,

160

INDIVIDUALS A G A I N S T VALUES

so that in these films the hero can fulfill the "Fight" sequence and also give up his revenge, fulfilling the "Commitment" sequence. In The Naked Spur, the hero kills the villain but decides not to return the body for the reward, thus giving up his desire for repayment for a wrong. In The Searchers, once again, it is more complicated. The two men sharing the hero role divide sequences between them. While Ethan and the rangers raid the Indian village, Martin alone finds and kills Scar, the villain; but when Debbie, the girl Ethan wants to kill, runs away from the village, Ethan catches her and, at the last minute, decides not to kill her but bring her safely home. Thus Martin fulfills the sequence "Fight" while Ethan fulfills the sequence "Commitment." "Equality" and "Acceptance" complete the narrative structure of the vengeance variation. The relation of these two sequences to the sequence "Commitment" and "Fight" is unusual but can be approximately diagrammed as follows: 5.

The hero goes outside of society. 7. The hero is given a special status.

"I "Acceptance"

"Equality"« "Fight"

13.

12. The hero gives up his special status. The hero enters society.

The sequence "Equality," as in the classical plot, demonstrates the hero's deep commitment to the values of society: after the search and fight, by which he has won for himself a special position of respect and power, he refuses to maintain it and set himself apart as a special person. But in the vengeance story, this sequence is largely redundant; the hero has already demonstrated this commitment in the sequence "Commitment." As a result, "Equality" is not stressed to the same degree as in the classical plot. In Stagecoach, Ringo turns himself in; in Nevada Smith, Max throws away his gun; and in Hang 'Em High, the hero at least attempts to quit his job as deputy. Otherwise, the ending of the sequence "Equality" more or less blends in with the ending of the sequence "Acceptance," the reentry of the hero into society. After establishing his individuality, the hero returns to his social, law-abiding, family life where he is an equal among equals. "Acceptance" shows us irrevocably that this is what he desires most; this is the right and satisfactory

INDIVIDUALS AGAINST VALUES

161

goal for such a man. Ringo (Stagecoach) and Howie (The Naked Spur) start a new life with a new w i f e in Mexico and California, respectively; The Man From Laramie returns to Laramie and his career in the army; and Nevada Smith, if you are paying attention, rides off to Hollywood to become a cowboy movie star. "Acceptance" does not really apply to One-Eyed Jacks since Rio never left society; but in the end he rides away to Oregon, promising to return in the spring to the woman he loves and their expected child. In The Searchers, though Ethan does not enter the house, he does at least return to the homestead, and Martin certainly enters the house with his bride-to-be on his arm. It should now be clear that the narrative relationships created between the types of characters are very similar to those of the classical plot. The hero can and must do what the society should but cannot. The rules and institutions of society are weak and insufficient, while the independent individual is strong and able. As an individual he is outside the social group and must negotiate his entry and acceptance. In both plots negotiation is based on the hero's independent use of his strength to correct a wrong against himself and society; that is, the hero establishes his autonomy and, at the same time, accepts and supports the values of society. The hero does not save society, yet in seeking his own revenge he always manages to help threatened members of society, who are always, of course, women, children, and old men. Ringo rids Lordsburg of the Plumbers and helps save the stagecoach passengers from the Indians. Lyn McAdam (Winchester '73) prevents a bank robbery and kills villains who have twice endangered children and once destroyed a family home; the Man from Laramie stops rifles from being sold to the Indians and thereby prevents a massacre of women and children; the Searchers rescue a young girl and destroy a band of murdering, scalping Indians; while both Howie Kemp (The Naked Spur) and Rio (One-Eyed Jacks) prevent a beautiful young woman from being used and brutalized by an evil, lecherous villain. Thus, the vengeance hero also uses his strength to help and protect society, so that his relationship to the weak group—or at least to weak members of the group—is that of defender and benefactor. Both classical and vengeance heroes give their final loyalty to the values of society. The man outside of society is outside because he is strong, and he must use that strength to get inside. The validity of the independent individual hinges upon his contributing to the welfare of the group, even at the expense of his own desires. Only in the classical Western does society really need the hero, yet in both versions the image of society is similar. The hero commits himself to an egalitarian group based on law, business, family, and

162

INDIVIDUALS AGAINST VALUES

nonviolence. In the vengeance variation, law and business are not stressed to the same degree as in the classical story; but the idea is the same, and it is usually stated in the familiar scene in which the hero in a quiet moment tells a girl of his dream of returning to or building a small ranch in a beautiful valley, getting a few head of cattle, finding a good woman, and raising a family. Both the oppositions and the final relationships are similar in the classical and vengeance plots, though the images expressing the concepts and the context of the action differ. They differ in a way that points toward a change in the basic relationships. T h e hero is no longer a lone gunfighter but a member of society who is forced to leave it. Society, no longer threatened with extinction, is simply a momentary victim. In this context, the hero's ability and even his duty as a strong individual come into direct conflict with his responsibility to uphold the values of society. In the classical situation his strength, though not social, was uniquely necessary to society; now, while it is sometimes helpful, it inevitably becomes antagonistic and threatening to the social group. The hero as a result is put in a situation in which, at least formally, he must choose between the exercise of his ability as an individual and his commitment to society's laws and morals. The choice is formal because in each case he manages to have it both ways. Yet the situation is clearly unstable, for the conflict between individual and society so easily reconciled in the classical Western has become sharper. The needs of society are beginning to restrict rather than encourage the individual, and though he is still content to accept the restriction, the possibility of rebellion now seems greater. The villains in the vengeance variation threaten the hero rather than society. It is as though they are testing his ability to survive rather than society's. T h e villains are no longer inside of society—at least they are no longer powerful economic exploiters inside society—so they have lost part of their meaning as a necessary but destructive element in a market economy. But if they are no longer a direct threat to economic values, they are now a more serious threat to the laws and morals of the liberal market society. T h e representatives of society cannot control them. Only the strong and independent individual can stop them, and he can do it only by abandoning the social rules and values and becoming a law unto himself. If he accepts social values and restricts his action, then the villains will escape and be successful. Of course they never do, but that is because of luck rather than determined effort. In other words, if the values of society are accepted, they cannot be defended; and if they are defended, they cannot be practiced. Thus,

INDIVIDUALS A G A I N S T V A L U E S

163

the vengeance villains represent a flaw in the liberal society—a sense that the group is ineffective—and they also represent a challenge to the viability of the individual in that society. The question is raised as to whether the strong individual can find a place in the social group, or whether he must finally separate himself from it if he is to remain true to his independence as well as to his values.

7 Oxoiips and Tedm.iqnj.es: The ^Professional P b t

The classical plot extends from 1930, the first year of our study, to the early fifties when both Shane, a self-conscious classic of the form, and Vera Cruz, a semi-serious satire, were made. The vengeance variation is most heavily represented in the decade of the fifties, with only a few occurrences earlier or later. The professional plot begins in the late fifties and dominates the sixties and seventies to the present. In this context, the transition theme is both a conceptual and chronological transition from the classical Western to the professional Western plot. Like the vengeance hero, the transition hero is initially a member of society who is forced to reject it. Now, however, the rejection is final—the hero can no longer reconcile his status and values as an individual with the values of society. Both the vengeance plot and the transition theme explicitly stress and transform the classical conflict between the individual and society. The vengeance story resolves this conflict as the classical Western did—the two are compatible—whereas the transition theme resolves it as the professional plot will—the two are not compatible. In one sense, the vengeance transformation was more successful than its alternative—many more films of this type were produced. In another sense, however, the transition theme was more important, for it provided the basis for the transformation that led to the enormously successful professional plot. The unusual and important role of the transition theme can also be seen in another way. Of all the Westerns in the study, the three that embody this theme 164

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

165

are among the most remembered by the public and especially by the critics. High Noon, Broken Arrow, and Johnny Guitar are still very popular as movies on TV and as 16mm rentals for schools, clubs, and film groups; and in the voluminous literature of film criticism, as well as in the rare analytical efforts, these films are respected and often commented on as outstanding examples of the Western form. Though the transition theme is not sufficiently developed to warrant a full structural analysis, we might note briefly the transformations that occur in it as a prelude to our discussion of the professional plot. All of the three central oppositions change their coding to some degree. The strong/weak distinction is maintained in the sense that the hero remains strong while the members of society are individually weak. But society as a group is now neither weak nor threatened. Acting together, the members of society fight to defend their values, and in this fight their opponent is the hero. For the good/bad opposition has also changed its image. The villains have virtually disappeared as an independent group and society has come to fill their role, while the hero now unambiguously represents good. He no longer fights for social values; he now fights for individual values—loyalty, honor, courage, individuality—since the values of society are no longer family, law, business, peace, but have become conformity, prejudice, cowardice, and intolerance. To some extent the hero still represents the social values of the classical plot—Will Kane in High Noon wants to defend the town and prevent violence, Jefferds in Broken Arrow tries to make peace with the Indians as well as marry and settle down, and Vienna in Johnny Guitar attempts to establish her own business and become a citizen of the town. But in each case, the hero is a strong and independent individual who is attacked by society and forced to leave it. No longer does he leave alone, however, for the third opposition, inside society/outside society, also has a new code. He is joined by a woman who fights with him and shares his values and individuality. The hero and the heroine are a pair who are outside of society by choice, but who can represent at least some of the social values from the classical plot. Now it seems that love and family—and also perhaps tolerance and respect—are not aspects of society but only truly exist between strong individuals who must separate themselves from the narrow-minded cowardice of the group. We get a reversal of the image of society—strong and bad rather than weak and good—and a hero, irrevocably outside of the group, who is joined by another individual with whom he can have

166

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

group, who is joined by another individual with whom he can have a family and retain a few of the traditional values. The weak/strong opposition is no longer strictly coded by the distinction between women and men. Women are now capable of strength and self-reliance. Instead of the strong man protecting and joining the weak woman, the strong couple now asserts its independence from the weak and cowardly persons who make up the social group. The basic narrative of the transition theme has already been outlined. The hero is in society but is different from the group. He is given a special status, then rejected and attacked by the members of society. He is joined by a woman (a man in the case of Johnny Guitar) and together they fight off (Broken Arrow, Johnny Guitar) or at least stand up to (High Noon) the social threat. When they both survive (High Noon and Johnny Guitar), they remain apart from society, seemingly to build their own independent life; and when the woman is killed (Broken Arrow), the hero goes off alone, strong in the memory of his wife. This narrative affirms the fundamental incompatibility of individual strength with social life. It also indicates that independent individuals must stand together in order to survive and create an alternative to that life. However, it does not show what this alternative is to be, and this is perhaps why the transition theme was not more successful as a transformation of the classical plot. The hero and heroine are left alone at the end, but what exactly will they do? Their values are still to a degree the traditional values held by society, yet they have rejected, and been rejected by, society. What is the role of individuals who—because of their strength and independence—do not belong within the social group but cannot live in complete isolation from it? This is the question that arises with the decline of the classical plot. Both the vengeance variation and the transition theme attempt an answer. But their answers are unsatisfactory; for in one case the classical solution of final compatability is reaffirmed while in the other total isolation seems to be called for. Our discussion of the classical plot centered on the problem of how an egalitarian and moral society can incorporate both the weak social group and the strong independent individual. Now, however, the problem seems to be under what conditions these two kinds of people can exist and function together while remaining basically separate and autonomous. This problem involves new assumptions about society, which reflect a change in American society and require a transformation of its mythical structures. It is this problem and these assumptions that are addressed, with remarkable success, in our final version of the Western myth. In the professional plot the three basic oppositions are present

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

167

with slight changes in the codes. The heroes are again outside of society from the start, the villains are villains, and society is usually weak, though as a group it is not really threatened. The weak/strong opposition is classical—the heroes and villains are strong, society is weak—except that now, as in the transition theme, women can also be strong. The heroes are outside of society, and the villains are sometimes out (True Grit, Big Jake) and sometimes in (EI Dorado, War Wagon); though even when the villain responsible for the villainy is in, the supervillain or gunfighter is always out. As in the classical plot, the heroes are acknowledged gunfighters, but now they are also acknowledged professionals; they make their living as gunfighters. There is always more than one; there is always a group of heroes. This multiplication of heroes, together with their professional status, is probably the most significant change in the hero's code for the inside/outside distinction. Otherwise, the usual images are present: the heroes are typically wanderers with no family and few if any attachments. Society is portrayed through a selected combination of its past images—more or less moral and decent but stuffy, tame, and uninteresting. Usually, society hardly appears except as an ineffective location and background for the action. It may be intensely concerned with the fight and its outcome, but its active role is minimal. Social goals and values are not really at issue, and they are rarely represented to any degree in the professional plot. Society consists of families, institutions, and businesses that are present and necessary to motivate the action, but largely irrelevant to the action itself. One important consequence of this new image of society is a vagueness and ambiguity in the criteria for the good/bad opposition. The opposition persists, for—as everyone knows—the good guys are still fighting the bad guys. But until now, social values and the moral values of peace, love, freedom, and tolerance have been challenged by the villains. In the professional plot this challenge may at times be present, yet it is no longer vital; often, it is simply absent. In the three Hawks films (Rio Bravo, EJ Dorado, Rio Lobo), there is a threat to society or members of society. While in each film this threat is indicated briefly at the start, afterwards it is virtually ignored, lost in the excitement of the small-scale war being waged. The same is true of The Commancheros, The AJamo, True Grit, The War Wagon, and Big Jake. In Rio Lobo, True Grit, and especially Big Jake the villains' attack is so convincing that a revenge motive, reminiscent of the vengeance variation, enters strongly into the action of the story. But there is no suggestion in these films of a consideration or value that makes the hero rethink his goal or hesitate in his fight. The battle, whatever its source, becomes an

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

168

end in itself—and this is even more clear in films such as The Professionals, The Wild Bunch, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Here, neither the heroes nor society are threatened, and the Professionals, heroes themselves initiate the attack; in the case of The they even fight the wrong people. It could be argued that, in the case of The Wild Bunch, it is a mistake to call the main characters heroes; since they are outlaws and killers, the good/bad distinction does not apply. But it clearly does apply, since the Wild Bunch are sympathetic and their opponents are not. The fact that a Western with such heroes can be so enormously successful reinforces the point that the standard criteria for the good/bad opposition have been significantly weakened. There are still heroes and villains, and we recognize the heroes because they are sympathetic and villains because they are not; but our sympathy no longer strictly agrees with commitment to society and morality. The good/bad opposition has become a way of describing the opponents in the fight rather than of explaining the reasons for the fight. The functions that express the narrative structure of this plot are as follows: 1. The heroes are professionals. 2. The heroes undertake a job in return for money. 3. The villains are very strong. 4. The society is ineffective, incapable of defending itself. 5. The job involves the heroes in a fight. 6. The heroes all have special abilities and a special status. 7. The heroes form a group for the job. 8. The heroes as a group share respect, affection, and loyalty. 9. The heroes as a group are independent of society. 10. The heroes fight the villains. 11. The heroes defeat the villains. 12. The heroes stay (or die) together. The first sequence, "Money," explains how the heroes take on their job. "Jwi

"

1. The heroes are professionals. society " ineffective, incapable of defending itself. 2. The heroes undertake a job in return for money.

4

The heroes are introduced as professionals and because the society is weak, they take a job as professionals, that is, for pay. This sequence has different versions, but in each case it is clear that the heroes enter a business agreement; they do not take the job for the sake of love, honor, community, or any recognizable set of values, either theirs or someone else's. In Rio Bravo, True Grit,

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

169

and The Professionals, the heroes are hired, because of their professional skills, to take care of a situation which society is both incapable of handling and not very concerned with. Although harm has been done, the real problem is whether the people harmed can pay enough money to hire help. In The Wild Bunch and Butch Cassidy the heroes are not hired, but they agree to attack society, which is still weak and defenseless, in order to make money, and since they are professionals, they very clearly discuss and plan their attack as just another job. In The War Wagon and For a Few Dollars More, the heroes attack the villains, who have already defeated the weak society, in order to make money. And in Big Jake and Chisum since the heroes are already rich, they do their job for revenge, as well as to protect their money, which the weak society cannot do. The next sequence, "Battle," explains how the job leads to a fight.

1

2. The heroes undertake a job in return for money.

3. The villains are very strong. 5. The job involves the heroes in a fight.

Sooner or later, usually sooner, the heroes engage the villains, and the battle is on. In some films—Rio Bravo, True Grit, The Professionals—the heroes take the job because only they can make the fight, and in others—Butch Cassidy, The Wild Bunch—they take the job hoping not to fight and find that they have to. In all films, however, the villains are exceptionally strong, from the "thirty or forty men, all professionals" in Rio Bravo to the superposse and the Bolivian Army in Butch Cassidy. Thus the heroes have to fight because it is their job: as Bishop says in The Wild Bunch, "I wouldn't have it any other way." The job, whether legal or illegal, whether based on kidnapping (The Professionals), murder (Rio Bravo), or larceny (Butch Cassidy), forces the heroes to fight. Consequently, it is the job as such that counts; that is, the motivation for the fight is largely irrelevant. The important point is that a fight occurs, not what it stands for. As the first two sequences show, the reasons for the fight may vary from noble ones (The Alamo) to selfish ones (The Wild Bunch); the consequences for the group of heroes are the same. This was not true in the classical or vengeance plots, where the hero either fought or abandoned the fight because he believed in social values. Even the hero of the transition theme, though opposed to society, was opposed because of his commitment to values of fairness, decency, and tolerance. In each of these previous plots, the victory of the hero—the victory of social values—was important; if he lost, the meaning of the story would change. But the professional heroes

170

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

can win or lose, and the meaning remains the same; they have formed a group and fought together. In fact, winning often seems embarrassing because they don't know exactly what to do next. Thus the reasons for the fight, as long as they are believable, are not particularly important, and the motivation for the fight varies greatly from film to film. The professional heroes are no longer defending social values. They are fighting for themselves, for money, and they enjoy it as professionals. There exists no set of obvious and unquestioned values. Professional heroes do not have to prove themselves by accepting such values; they prove themselves simply by being professionals. In this narrative structure the values of the heroes are derived from their fight, a remarkable change from the other Westerns where the hero's fight was a consequence of his values. An image of social values has been replaced by an image of professional values. Exactly what these values are is revealed in the analysis of the remaining narrative sequences. The sequence "Group" explains the change from the decision to fight to the formation of a unified group. 5. The job involves the heroes in a fight. "Group" 6. The heroes all have special abilities and a special status. 7. The heroes form a group for the job. When professional heroes join to fight, they form an organized and effective group. They work together to plan actions and carry them through. In contrast, when the classical hero joined society in its fight against the villains, no group was formed and the hero fought alone. Formerly, none of the people of society were equal to the hero, whereas now the professional heroes share similar traits—they are all fighters with unusual strength, skills, and status. Because of these common abilities—and although each one is clearly able and independent by himself—it is possible for them to depend on and help one another. Each hero has an acquired status because of his strength and independence; the viewers are informed of their status early, as is everyone in the story. This is different from the classical plot, where the hero in unknown and his status is developed by his action rather than given from the start. Now the strength and the status are known from the beginning and provide the basis for forming the group. The heroes of the professional Western are individuals in the same sense as the classical hero—they are strong and independent— but now they are working together and depending on someone other than themselves. They are no less independent, but they are now willing and able to form a fighting group composed of equals; a hero will fight only with his peers, with other strong individuals.

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

171

We have said that the fundamental conceptual concern of the Western is the conflict between the idea of the individual and the idea of society within the American capitalist system, and this remains true of the professional plot. But here we have a new dimension to the conceptual apparatus by which the myth attempts to understand and reconcile this conflict: individuals can form their own groups. This possibility, foreshadowed in the transition theme, becomes definite and fully developed in the narrative of the professional Western. It offers a new approach to an old problem; and as such, it is a response to the changing social context that gave rise to this narrative structure and that the narrative structure helps us to understand. The idea of individuals joining forces is developed further by the sequence "Independence." Not only do the heroes form a group, but this group—because of its special nature—provides social satisfactions. 7. The heroes form a group for the job. "Indepen8. The heroes as a group share respect, affection, and dence" 1 loyalty. 9. The heroes as a group are independent of society.

This sequence explains how the group develops from a collective of individuals with a specific purpose to an independent and restricted social group. The heroes are thrown together by circumstances, but because of their shared respect and ability, they develop affection, humor, and warmth so that the group provides an enjoyable and rewarding life. Close friendships arise; each member of the group trusts and depends on the others in a relaxed context of joking and trust. As a result the group becomes more and more self-contained, independent of the need for other social contracts; the professional heroes provide for themselves what the classical hero lacked and sought in society. Their group becomes an independent and elite society. It becomes independent in the sense that it provides its members complete and satisfying social relationships, but not in the sense that it becomes a separate and autonomous social body. The heroes continue to function around, and often work for, the institutions of society. But their relationship to these institutions is utilitarian; they have no commitment to them except as a source of necessitiesmoney, food, clothing, and so forth. Their commitment is to the group and to the human relationships it provides. These relationships are based on the mutual possession of special skills and status. Further, in the context of the narrative, this group is strong and exercises a power that, if not absolute, is certainly formidable. Thus, the professional group can accurately be called an elite body—a

172

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

group that wields power, is restricted by status and is socially independent and self-contained, yet utilizes and depends on social institutions. Since this elite group is socially self-contained, one aspect of it is that the heroes, unlike the classical and vengeance heroes, are no longer concerned with women who are inside and representative of society. Either the heroes have no special relations with women— The Professionals, The Wild Bunch, The War Wagon, Big Jake—or the women involved are also outside of society and virtually belong to the group. In Rio Bravo, Feathers is a gambler who is wanted by the law, and she helps save Chance in a fight. In El Dorado, Joy dresses like a man, always carries a gun, and kills the arch-villain in the final shootout, saving Cole Thornton's life. And in Butch Cassidy and True Grit, the girl rides and fights with the group. This too is a plot development that was initiated by the transition theme. Women are no longer representatives of society requiring protection and exuding morality; they are now individuals in their own right, capable of joining the elite group and making it, by their presence, even more independent of society. The next sequence is the familiar "Fight" sequence: "Fight" -

10. The heroes fight the villains. heroes have special abilities and a special status. „ 11. The heroes defeat the villains.

Usually this sequence applies in a straightforward manner, yet there are seeming exceptions: the heroes do not always fight the villains and they do not always survive. These exceptions arise mainly in Butch Cassidy and The Wild Bunch; in both films the heroes fight society (as well as villains), and die. But the exceptions are not major, and once again we can point to the ambiguity of the word "defeat." Butch Cassidy and Sundance defeat (or escape) society continually, until the last scene when they are faced with an entire army. Even here they are not actually killed, or at least their death is not shown. Rather, they are frozen in action, indicating that they cannot really die but have indeed become a legend. In this sense the victory is theirs. The Wild Bunch also defeat society in every encounter, and they are not killed until they have destroyed the renegade army, thereby freeing the Mexican peasants from further oppression. In a clear sense, then, they too are not completely defeated but have a final victory. The last sequence is "Elite," which ends the narrative with a firm acceptance of its elitist implications. After the fight, the heroes do not enter society or completely separate themselves from it. They

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

173

remain associated with it but also maintain their position as a powerful, elite, and independent group.

"Elite"

"Fight" 12.

The heroes form a group for the job. 10. The heroes fight the villains. 6. The heroes all have special abilities and a special status. 11. The heroes defeat the villains. The heroes stay (or die) together.

With only one exception—Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—the group was formed for the sole purpose of fighting and winning the battle. After the battle, however, the group stays together; it has become a pleasant and seemingly permanent association. Professional heroes do not take off their guns, marry, settle down, leave, or do any of the things after the fight that classical and vengeance heroes are noted for. Their final and only commitment is to their group, even after its specific goal—the reason for its creation—has been accomplished. Only in two of the films discussed do the heroes separate at the end—The Commancheros and True Grit. The former is an early professional Western (1960), and though the two male heroes part, one of them—together with the strong woman who has joined their fight—leave to start a new life, an ending, if not strictly "professional," that recalls the transition theme. In True Grit, though Mattie and Rooster part, it is with the implication that they will meet again and be buried together. In Butch Cassidy, The Wild Bunch, and The Alamo, the heroes die; but even here "Elite" is satisfied in substance if not in detail. For the heroes die an exciting, satisfying, and even noble death, which in the context of the myth reinforces the value of the elite group. In most of the films—Rio Bravo, The Professionals, El Dorado, Rio Lobo, The War Wagon, Big Jake, The Cowboys—"Elite" applies directly. The heroes tell a few jokes, tend their wounds, and stay together, happy in their strength, friendships, and status. This analysis has shown that the structure of the professional plot differs significantly from that of previous Westerns. For such a change to be truly interesting, though, it must be understood not simply as a variation in Western movies but as a cultural change reflecting changes in the social institutions which shape attitudes and actions. The structure of the classical Western symbolically offers a model for action by which the individual can successfully combine the individualism required by the market with the needs of equality and community, the social goals of market society. The vengeance variation reveals a first breach in the model, and the transition theme exposes a major breakdown in the theory of mutual

174

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

attraction between individualism and social values. The professional plot offers a new and successful structuring of the relationship between individuals and society—but what social changes does it correspond to? Can we argue that the professional Western is a conceptualization of actions and attitudes necessitated by social institutions? If so, we must locate the changes in American institutions that have required the abandonment of the images of the classical plot and established a new idea of social relationships. One such change is the transition from a market to a managed economy. No longer do we have an economy where, in the words of Galbraith, "the price that is offered is counted upon to produce the result that is sought." Instead w e h a v e a n e c o n o m i c s y s t e m w h i c h , w h a t e v e r its f o r m a l ideological billing, is in s u b s t a n t i a l p a r t a p l a n n e d e c o n o m y .

The

initiative in d e c i d i n g w h a t is to be p r o d u c e d c o m e s n o t f r o m t h e sovereign c o n s u m e r w h o , t h r o u g h t h e m a r k e t , issues t h e i n s t r u c t i o n s that bend t h e p r o d u c t i v e m e c h a n i s m t o his u l t i m a t e will. R a t h e r it comes from the great producing organization which reaches forward to c o n t r o l the m a r k e t s t h a t it is p r e s u m e d to s e r v e a n d , b e y o n d , to b e n d the c o n s u m e r to its needs. A n d , in so doing, it d e e p l y influences his values. ( G a l b r a i t h , p. 18)

It is this influence on values and beliefs that we are interested in, and to understand it we must look closer at American economic institutions. The turning point from a market to a managed economy was World War II. Until the war capitalism had fostered a steady but irregular sequence of expansion and recession, but since the war there has been no serious depression and only once, from 1947 to 1966, did real income in the U.S. fail to rise. The recessions of 1953 and 1957 resulted from cuts in the defense budget, but since 1960 military Keynesianism—the use of the defense budget to manage the economy—has been accepted government practice. Thus, beginning after World War II and culminating in the complete acceptance of Keynesian economic policies by the Kennedy Administration, economic planning to insure continual growth has become a fundamental responsibility of government and business. The major reason for this commitment to economic planning has been the enormous increase in the industrial use of technology. Barry Commoner summarizes the historical events that led to this increase: T h e last fifty y e a r s h a v e seen a s w e e p i n g r e v o l u t i o n in s c i e n c e , w h i c h h a s g e n e r a t e d p o w e r f u l c h a n g e s in t e c h n o l o g y a n d in its a p p l i c a t i o n t o industry, a g r i c u l t u r e , t r a n s p o r t a t i o n , a n d c o m m u n i c a t i o n .

World

W a r II is a d e c i s i v e t u r n i n g p o i n t in this h i s t o r i c a l t r a n s i t i o n . T h e

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

175

twenty-five years preceding the war is the main period of the sweeping modern revolution in basic science, especially in physics and chemistry, upon which so much of the new productive technology is based. In the approximate period of the war itself, under the pressure of military demands, much of the new scientific knowledge w a s rapidly converted into new technologies and productive enterprises. Since the war, the technologies have rapidly transformed the nature of industrial and agricultural production. The period of World War II is, therefore, a great divide between the scientific revolution that preceded it and the technological revolution that followed it. (Commoner, p. 129)

With the increased use of technology comes the increased need for planning. When an industry utilizes sophisticated technology in its production, a miscalculation about future sales or the investment climate can be very costly. Initial investment is greater; the time between conception and production is increased; greater specialized training and more complicated organization are required. For these and other reasons, the company committed to massive technology must also be committed to insuring that the market conditions will favor the success of its product. Thus, the modern corporation must take every feasible step to see that what it decides to produce is wanted by the consumer at a remunerative price. And it must see that the labor, materials, and equipment that it needs will be available at a cost consistent with the price it will receive. It must exercise control over what is sold. It must exercise control over what is supplied. It must replace the market with planning. (Galbraith, p. 35)

The rise of a managed economy inevitably alters the nature of politics in a capitalist society. As we have seen, the self-regulating market demands that politics—the determination of social goals—be surrendered to the market, with the assumption that the market will automatically produce the "good society." This did not happen under capitalism; instead the market produced depressions and wars. Industrial planning was begun both to avoid depressions and to meet the needs of technology. But with planning comes the question of who is to making the plans and for what ends. When the government begins to control the economy, it reverses the relationship between politics and economics. No longer are political decisions made in accordance with the needs of the market; now they are made by the men who manage the economy and therefore determine social as well as economic goals. Rather than avoiding government regulation, business now encourages it, and thus power has returned to politics.

176

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

This poses a problem of legitimation, for there no longer exists an obvious source of political authority. Under the market, maintenance of the relations of production justified political decisions. But if the relations of production are determined by those decisions, what is the mandate for them? What are the values behind them? The traditional forms of legitimation—myth, religion, tradition—have been effectively disenchanted by the success of the market ideology. Thus the need for industrial planning creates a new base of power in capitalist society and also requires the establishment of a new understanding of social goals and values—a new ideology—in order to legitimize that power. The role of the managers is to manage. Their job is not to create a new society but to regulate an economic system. In this system, government is charged with the achievement of security and stabilization in the form of welfare, employment, and income. Political action takes on a "peculiarly negative character." It is not concerned, as political action should be, with the achievement of social goals established through social interaction, or the "good life." Rather, it is simply concerned with maintaining the system. Economic management did not arise out of a conflict between the claims of politics and the claims of economics, but simply to make the economy work more efficiently and predictibly. Thus, the goals of the new political managers remain economic. Political action "is oriented toward the elimination of dysfunctions and the avoidance of risks that threaten the system; not, in other words, toward the realization of practical goals but toward the solution of technical problems" (Habermas, p. 103). Now if political decisions are only concerned with technical regulations, they cannot be made in the public domain. Public discussion and interaction are necessary in a democracy to determine social goals and policy, but not for technical actions and decisions. In fact, since such actions require specialized knowledge and detailed information, public discussion would be detrimental to the successful manipulation of the economy. The trouble, however, is that in an industrial society most economic decisions are not simply technical but directly determine the nature of human capabilities and social relations. These decisions are therefore inherently political and should be made in accordance with goals and values determined by informed public discussion and interaction. If this is avoided, if the managers remain simply managers and economic decisions continue to be made in the interests of the economy alone or of the economic leaders, then the public must accept the idea that these decisions involve only technical problems that, as laymen, they are unqualified to understand and evaluate. The society must

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

177

accept an ideology that legitimates political power as a source of economic efficiency. The institutionalization of science and technology in an industrial society provides a basis for this ideology. As scientific research and technological development come more and more to be an independent source of economic surplus, they begin to appear as ends in themselves. With a commitment to the creation and utilization of large-scale technology, the practical social goals, which the technology should be instrumental in achieving, become increasingly obscured and separated from the need to maximize the use and efficiency of the technology. Thus the values of the institutional framework of society—equality, community, freedom, and so forth— are replaced by the values of the purposive-rational subsystem, the economy—economic growth, profits, creation of markets. It is true that social interests still determine the direction, functions, and p a c e of t e c h n i c a l progress. But these interests define the social system so much as a whole that they c o i n c i d e with the interest in maintaining the s y s t e m . . . . T h e q u a s i - a u t o n o m o u s progress of science and technology then a p p e a r s as an independent variable on w h i c h the most important single system variable, n a m e l y e c o n o m i c growth, depends. T h u s arises a perspective in w h i c h the development of the social system seems to be determined by the logic of scientific-technical progress. . . . But w h e n this s e m b l a n c e has taken root effectively, then p r o p a g a n d a c a n refer to the role of technology and science in order to e x p l a i n and legitimate w h y in modern societies the process of d e m o c r a t i c decision-making about p r a c t i c a l problems loses its function and 'must' be r e p l a c e d by plebiscitary decisions about alternative sets of leaders of a d m i n s t r a t i v e personnel. (Habermas, p. 105)

Another term for the "sets of leaders of administrative personnel" would be "technical elite." The technical approach to social decisions becomes an ideology that legitimates the new political power to the depoliticized population. After intense and calculated exposure to news, advertising, and drama, the public becomes convinced that social values are coincident with the technical needs of the economic system. They are therefore willing to surrender the discussion of social goals and rely on the technocrats who purport to understand the objective functioning of the system. "Social purpose becomes . . . what serves the goals of the members of the technostructure. This process is highly successful in our time. Much of what is believed to be socially important is, in fact, the adaptation of social attitudes to the goal system of the technostructure" (Galbraith, p. 173). This ideology of technocracy has become entrenched in the last two decades,

178

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

achieving its greatest strength in America after the flight of Sputnik and the enormous commitment to science and technology in the sixties. According to Peter Drucker, a principal spokesman for the industrial society: Before World War II free enterprise and communism were generally measured throughout the world by their respective claims to have superior ability to create a free and just society. Since World War II the question has largely been: which system is better at speeding economic development to a modern technological civilization? (Drucker, p. 84)

Let us look briefly at some aspects of the human relationships that industrial technology creates and its ideology legitimates. First, technology requires group decision-making. The individualistic, self-reliant entrepreneur is gone. Now the requirements of specialized knowledge and skills, together with the need for detailed planning and complex organization, necessitate reliance upon a group of men each of whom contributes information needed to make decisions. This is the group Galbraith calls the technostructure. It consists of specialized men, professionals, who work together for a common goal. "Thus decision in the modern business enterprise is the product not of individuals but of groups . . . It is what makes modern business possible, and in other contexts it is what makes modern government possible" (Galbraith, p. 76). The individualistic, aggressive businessman is far less important in the technostructure than under free-market capitalism. "What the entrepreneur created, only a group of men sharing specialized information could ultimately operate" (Galbraith, p. 101). Consequently, individualism is deemphasized in the ideology of technocracy. "Not indifference but sensitivity to others, not individualism but accomodation to organization, not competition but intimate and continuing cooperation are the prime requirements for group action" (Galbraith, p. 103). Membership in the technostructure provides great social satisfactions for the individual. He works closely with a group that depends on him and on whom he depends; he is close to a source of power and receives social prestige accordingly. He is a professional: he identifies with the group and the corporation, and they in turn recognize and reward his personal contribution. Thus he has a social role that is challenging and protective and provides him with an elite social status. It is normally a matter of pride that the corporation absorbs nearly all his waking energy. All else including family, politics, sometimes even alcohol and sex, are secondary. "To the executive there is between

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

179

work and other aspects of one's life a unity he can never fully explain. . . . H o w can you overwork, e x e c u t i v e s ask, if your work is your life?" (Galbraith, p. 165; internal quotation from the editors of Fortune magazine)

The individual in the technostructure identifies his goals with those of the corporation, and these goals become social goals. Though the individual seems to be working for the newly defined social goals, he is in fact working to maintain his group. As long as the technostructure does a good job and is not recognized as having replaced democratic decision-making, its function and the place of the individual in it is safe. The professional is committed to the technical group not because its activities agree with his values, but because it provides a satisfying social environment once he is willing to accept the values implicit in the technostructure. These, then, are the demands and rewards of membership in the technostructure. And membership in the technostructure is the leading image of success in industrial society, having replaced the image of the independent entrepreneur. Thus, though few Americans are in fact in the technostructure, the idea of the kind of person required for membership is the key image, in the ideology of technocracy, that legitimizes the managed, technological society, just as the idea of the autonomous, self-reliant individual was the key image in the ideology of the free market. This image is of a specialized man who works in an elite group that possesses great power and seeks relatively arbitrary, technical goals. The individual is admitted to a community of peers in which he is important and respected; the social group satisfies every requirement for meaningful social relationships, except commitment to social values. This image matches that of the heroes in the professional Western. The sequence "Money" establishes the elite nature of the heroes: they undertake a job because of society's weakness. This is essentially the same in the classical and vengeance stories, except that the professional plot also contains the sequence "Elite": the heroes retain their special status and are proud of it. The professional heroes become an elite intentionally and enjoy its rewards. There is no democratic bias in their actions. Further, they become an elite because of their power. They are specialized men, each with a technical skill, and they win the fight—"Fight"—which society cannot do. The sequence "Battle" shows that the heroes are not fighting because of a commitment to values but simply because it's their job. Their goals are relatively arbitrary, and victory does not prove the worth of a social principle but the success of technical ability. In the sequence "Group" the heroes combine their specialities in

180

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

order to a c c o m p l i s h their job. T h e g r o u p is restricted to those w i t h the superior technical skills that are the source of their status and success. Finally, the s e q u e n c e " I n d e p e n d e n c e " — t h e k e y s e q u e n c e explains h o w this g r o u p p r o v i d e s the necessary social satisfactions of friendship and respect, and is thus a self-contained q u a s i - c o m m u nity, essentially independent of the w e a k e r , non-elite society. A s in technological society, the g r o u p of elite, s p e c i a l i z e d men in the professional W e s t e r n relate to ordinary society o n l y professionally; their need for a social identity is totally satisfied b y m e m b e r s h i p in the group. This, of course, is v e r y different from the classical Western, w h e r e society n e e d s the hero's strength but w h e r e he, in turn, needs the social v a l u e s for love, friendship, and a m e a n i n g f u l life. For the professional hero, like the business e x e c u t i v e , the only meaningful v a l u e s are professional: "his life is his w o r k . " T h e r e is a deep c o n c e p t u a l correlation b e t w e e n this narrative structure and the ideological r e q u i r e m e n t s of m o d e r n industrial society. Notice h o w the i d e o l o g y of t e c h n o c r a c y , as portrayed and vindicated in the professional W e s t e r n , d e s c r i b e s and e x p l a i n s m a n y aspects of such current p r e d i c a m e n t s as the actions of officials in planning and c o n c e a l i n g the W a t e r g a t e break-in. T h e s e officials w e r e willing to d e f y the Constitution, d e n y i n d i v i d u a l rights, destroy reputations, forge documents, a c c e p t m a s s i v e bribes, create and utilize an illegal spy ring, w i r e t a p relatives, lie under oath, and the like. T h e y did not regard t h e m s e l v e s as b o u n d b y c o m m i t t m e n t to the political rights and f r e e d o m s of A m e r i c a n society. H o w then did they, as officers of l a w and justice, j u s t i f y their actions? S o m e insight is given b y Herbert J. Porter, o n c e Director of C o m munications for the W h i t e H o u s e and later Director of S c h e d u l i n g for the Committee to Re-elect the President. In the h e a r i n g s b e f o r e the Senate Sub-committee on Watergate, the f o l l o w i n g e x c h a n g e took place b e t w e e n Porter and Senator H o w a r d Baker: SENATOR BAKER: A t a n y time, did y o u t h i n k of saying: I do not think this is q u i t e right, this is not quite the w a y it ought to be? Did y o u think of that? . . . MR. PORTER: Y e s , I did. SENATOR BAKER: W h a t did y o u do a b o u t it? MR. PORTER: I did not d o a n y t h i n g . SENATOR BAKER: W h y didn't y o u ? MR. PORTER: In all h o n e s t y , p r o b a b l y b e c a u s e of the fear of g r o u p pressure that w o u l d ensue, of not b e i n g a team p l a y e r . SENATOR BAKER: W h a t c a u s e d y o u to a b d i c a t e y o u r o w n c o n s c i e n c e and d i s a p p r o v a l , if y o u did d i s a p p r o v e , of the p r a c t i c e s or dirty t r i c k s o p e r a t i o n ?

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

181

MR. PORTER: Well, Senator Baker, my loyalty to this man, Richard Nixon. (U.S. Congress, Vol. 2, pp. 648-649.)

Later Senator Herman Talmadge asked a similar question of John N. Mitchell, once Attorney General and then Director of the Committee to Re-elect the President. SENATOR TALMADGE: Here was the deputy campaign director involved, here were his two closest associates in his office involved, all around him were people involved in crime, perjury, accessory after the fact, and you deliberately refused to tell him that. Would you state that the expediency of the election was more important than that? MR. MITCHELL: Senator, I think you have put it exactly correct. In my mind, the re-election of Richard Nixon, compared with what was available on the other side, was so much more important that I put it in just that context. (U.S. Congress, Vol. 4, p. 166F.)

Both Porter and Mitchell were government officials who admitted associating with criminals, covering up crimes, and generally betraying the public trust. They and others were willing to abandon social and political values for the sake of committment to a team, loyalty to the team members, and an overriding concern with accomplishing by any means a given job. Such professional values are in conformity with the needs of a technical, corporate economy. But if in fact the institutions of American society have undergone such a significant change, what about the binary structure of the Western? How has it been affected? In the classical plot the binary structure reflects the assumptions about the individual and society necessary for rational action in a society governed by the institutions of the market. Since World W a r II, the more or less self-regulating market has been replaced by a managed economy, though this management has not attempted to replace the market; it has only tried to regulate it from above. Regulation and the requirements of capitalist technology have created a new political power, established new patterns of social interaction, and necessitated a new social ideology. The market still exists; the individual in America is still subject to the vicissitudes of the (planned) market and must rationally understand himself and his actions in this context if he is to survive. The market is no longer free, and even though technology may have replaced labor as the major productive f o r c e competition between labor and management, and between labor and labor, still exists and is encouraged. The individual must still think of himself as "essentially the proprietor of his own person and capacities, for which he owes nothing to society." However,

182

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

as we have seen, this assumption is only valid in a society in which it is consistent with the institutions of the society, where the market is free and the basis of political legitimation. Since this is no longer true of industrial America, the individual lives in a situation where he must understand himself and his society in a way that is not compatible with the institutions that structure his actions. The dilemma of modern liberal-democratic theory is now apparent: it must continue to use the assumptions of possessive individualism, at a time when the structure of the market society no longer provides the necessary conditions for deducing a valid theory of political obligation from those assumptions. Liberal theory must continue to use the assumptions of possessive individualism because they are factually accurate for our possessive market societies. (MacPherson, p. 275)

The professional Western, as a carrier of the new ideology, must respond to the conceptual need for an autonomous individual in the context of "a system that requires, both in production and consumption, that individuality be suppressed" (Galbraith, p. 329). This blending is accomplished in the films by a new coding of the three basic oppositions of the Western: good/bad, strong/weak, and inside society/outside society. In the classical plot, these three oppositions essentially define the autonomous, market individual—the good, strong hero who is outside and independent of society. In the professional plot, the essential individuality of this character is denied almost as strongly as it is affirmed in the classical story. The good/bad distinction now depends solely on sympathy, not on commitment to social values. The good guys are the ones who are pleasant, friendly, and attractive, and we identify with them. The bad guys are mean and unpleasant. But both are typically professionals. Neither has any special commitment to making the world safe for churches, schools, or any of the things that separated good people from bad people in the classical plot. This new coding prevents the establishment of the complimentarity between the individual and society that was so central to the meaning of the classical Western. The autonomous individual may still exist, but he is no longer needed for anything and so he is less important. Similarly, the strong/weak distinction in the professional plot depends more on technical strength and less on strength of character. The classical hero had the technical skill of a gunfighter, but he was also strong in standing up to the society and the villains when he knew he was right. The professional hero does much less standing up for ideas or principles and much more proving of his technical skill as a fighter. Finally, the inside society/outside society distinction, which most strongly characterizes the notion of individuality,

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

183

has undergone the most striking change of coding. The classical hero was separated from society by his values as well as his strength, initially, he did not share the social values of the community but was self-reliant and self-sufficient. He was therefore outside of society; but because society needed his strength, he could use that strength to bridge the gap in values. T h e professional hero, on the other hand, is not separated from the society by values because neither he nor the society have any values. Society is characterized as petty, self-righteous, dull, and mercenary, and the hero as simply mercenary. Thus, he is only separated from society by his special skill. Since society has no values, the hero must himself establish a set of values that distinguish him from society. He does this by joining an elite group, which then interacts according to the group values of loyalty, respect, and friendship. In this way, the group of heroes becomes outside of society: it is independent of society because its values are different. The society recognizes each member as a special individual, and, even more important, the group recognizes and depends upon the individuality of each member's unique contribution. But membership depends entirely upon technical skill and the absolute acceptance of the professional or technical goals of the group. T h e individuality of each professional hero rests more on his technical strength than is true of the classical hero. Without his skill, the professional hero has no access to membership in the group, the source of his individuality; whereas while the classical hero used his strength to be accepted into society, his individuality was established separately through his characterization as an unknown, self-sufficient stranger. Moreover, the thing that establishes the professional hero's individuality is the same thing that detracts from his image as a true individual: his membership in a group. The classical hero was never a member of a group; he was different from everybody; though he could marry into society, he could never be like other people. Since the professional hero can only be an individual when he is among his peers, it is clear that the basic idea of the individual in society has undergone a significant change in the oppositional structure of this Western plot. While the idea of the individual has changed, the inside society/ outside society distinction remains intact. The individual is still separated from society, only now the individual is in a group and the group is separated from society. Society has become something to be avoided, and powerful, elite groups are therefore created to provide meaningful social interaction. These groups are superior to society, and they remain superior: they do not give up their status and enter society like the classical hero. As a model for action, then, the professional Western directs the individual to reject social

184

GROUPS AND TECHNIQUES

values and involvement for the sake of companionship and technical power. By joining the group and accepting the values of technical proficiency, the individual shows himself to be superior to the petty, dull, weak people in ordinary society. We might finally note a few of the many groups in modern America that have accepted this idea of themselves: academics, doctors, executives, scientists, hippies, Minutemen, and Weathermen. In the sixties and seventies, the traditional conceptual conflict between the idea of society and the idea of the individual has been transformed into a conflict between society and an elite group. This is perhaps one of the most significant consequences of the emergence of capitalist technology as a social and ideological force.

and

Lévi-Strauss argues that tribal myths are cognitive rather than emotional attempts to classify and understand the world; and Kenneth Burke takes a similar approach to works of literature in modern societies. In this study, I have argued that the Western is a myth of contemporary American society. As such, it contains a conceptual analysis of society that provides a model of social action. This is an unusual argument for two reasons. First, most anthropologists—including Lévi-Strauss—as well as most literary critics have tacitly agreed that primitive societies have myths whereas modern societies have history and literature. Myth is viewed either as a nonhistorical (i.e., primitive) form of history and philosophy (Lévi-Strauss and Malinowski), or as a patterning of archetypes (gods, origins, revolutions) that writers appropriate and manipulate to create great works of literature (Northrop Frye and Leslie Fiedler). In either case, the agreement is that modern societies do not have myths in the sense of popular stories that serve to locate and interpret social experience. They may have folktales and legends, but they have history and science to explain origins and nature and literature to express the archetypes of the collective unconscious. They don't need myths. On the other hand, I have assumed that modern America does have myths in the sense of popular stories and that the Western is one. Its function is similar to that of myths in other societies. While Lévi-Strauss, Burke, and others have stressed the conceptual dimension of myths and literature, their function as a paradigm or model of social action has been more or less unnoticed. In most analyses, the primary interest has been in the social symbolism of 185

186

MYTH AND MEANING

the myth rather than in the movement of the story, the conflicts and resolutions of the plot. The narrative aspect of myth has been taken for granted as a necessary framework for the expression of the symbolism, not particularly interesting in itself; like the stadium for a football game, it is useful for the game but does not need to be included in the commentary. By stressing the narrative structure of the Western, I have tried to show that it is through the narrative action that the conceptual symbolism of the Western, or any myth, is understood and applied by its hearers (or viewers). Thus, the analogy should be to the rules, not the stadium, of the football game; for the narrative structure constitutes the myth just as the rules constitute the game. There can be different rules (or symbols), but without the rules there is no game. And this is the second reason why my argument is unusual. The narrative structure is determined by the requirements of the narrative sequence—a beginning and ending description of one situation with a middle statement that explains a change in that situation. It is through the logic of this sequence that a narrative "makes sense," tells a story rather than giving a list of events. More specifically, the narrative sequence provides the rules by which characters are created and the conflicts are resolved in a story. When the story is a myth and the characters represent social types or principles in a structure of oppositions, then the narrative structure offers a model of social action by presenting identifiable social types and showing how they interact. The receivers of the myth learn how to act by recognizing their own situation in it and observing how it is resolved. If they are to recognize their own situation, the narrative structure must reflect the social relationships necessitated by the basic institutions within which they live. As the institutions change because of technology, war, migration, or depression, so the narrative structure of the myth must change. The social types symbolized by the oppositional structure will generally remain the same, since they are fundamental to the society's understanding of itself; but the conceptual relationships between those types will change as the real relationships between people change with the institutions of the society. Thus, it is in the narrative structure that the relationship between a myth and its society is most apparent, and it is because they have generally ignored the narrative dimension that most commentators on myths have interpreted them as revealing universal archetypes, biological traumas, or mental structures rather than as conceptual models of social action for everyday life. In the Western, the classical plot shows that the way to achieve such human rewards as friendship, respect, and dignity is to separate

MYTH AND MEANING

187

yourself from others and use your strength as an autonomous individual to succor them. This plot exists in the context of a restricted but active market economy. The vengeance variation—in the context of a tentative planned economy—weakens the compatibility of the individual and society by showing that the path to respect and love is to separate yourself from others, struggling individually against your many and strong enemies but striving to remember and return to the softer values of marriage and humility. The transition theme, anticipating new social values, argues that love and companionship are available—at the cost of becoming a social outcast—to the individual who stands firmly and righteously against the intolerance and ignorance of sociey. Finally, the professional plot—in the context of a corporate economy—argues that companionship and respect are to be achieved only by becoming a skilled technician, who joins an elite group of professionals, accepts any job that is offered, and has loyalty only to the integrity of the team, not to any competing social or community values. Thus the Western has presented a series of models of relevant social action in the context of economic institutions. All myths fulfill this function for their societies, and therefore the Western, though located in a modern industrial society, is as much a myth as the tribal myths of the anthropologists. Lévi-Strauss (and others) would disagree with this, on the general argument that tribal myths provide a society with a unique, synthetic pattern of thought through which the society explains its relationship to history and to nature. On the other hand modern societies are seen to have an analytic mode of thought which we express in history and science, and therefore we cannot have myths in the same sense as tribal societies. I have taken issue with Lévi-Strauss on this in the Appendix, so here I will simply summarize that argument. It is true that both tribal myths and our myths, including the Western, are about the past; we have history to explain the past, whereas tribal societies do not. For them, life is cyclical; the past, except for the mythical past, is like the present, a recurring cycle of seasons and rituals. For us, the past is history; it is necessarily different from the present. But for this very reason, history is not enough: it can explain the present in terms of the past, but it cannot provide an indication of how to act in the present based on the past, since by definition the past is categorically different from the present. Myths however, can use the setting of the past to create and resolve the conflicts of the present. Myths use the past to tell us how to act in the present. In tribal societies, since the mythical past is the only past worth knowing, myths can stand for history. In our society they cannot,

188

MYTH AND MEANING

but they can fulfill a major function, which is to present a model of social action based upon a mythical interpretation of the past. One consequence of this mythical use of the past as a model for the present is that the setting of the past becomes relevant to the present in an unusual way. The elements of this setting may no longer be practically useful or important, but through the myth they become conceptually important and take on meanings that have little if any relation to actual meanings associated with the setting as it was experienced in the past. In more concrete terms, some aspects of the American West in the late nineteenth century have become quite significant in modern America, but for reasons that are clearly different from the reasons for their actual significance in the historical West. One obvious case is clothes. Western attire is perennially popular and makes periodic forays into the "mod" look for both men and women. Yet in the West, these clothes—boots, jeans, vests, wide-brimmed hats—had a utilitarian function, whereas now they are worn because of their association with the myth, not because they offer any particular advantage as clothing or because of sentimental attachments to the real West. A more revealing case is the modern feeling for the western landscape. In the historical West, nature was a useful resource and a stern antagonist, not a source of inspiration. The pioneer primarily wanted wealth; he hoped to turn the West into a copy of the East—civilized, sophisticated, genteel. The ruggedness of the land was something to be overcome, its vastness something to be populated, its beauty something to be ignored. Today this same land—or at least that part of it that remains more or less natural—is widely valued as a vacationland. Much of it is protected from further economic exploitation and preserved for the yearly summer exodus from the cities. Families spend their entire year saving and preparing for two or three weeks "in the mountains," "at the lake," "in the national parks." The land is felt to be a place for relaxation and a source of renewal. We go to it in order to "clear our heads," "restore our strength," "enjoy the simple pleasures," "get in touch with nature"—in order to validate our values, which are challenged and undermined by the demands of modern civilization. The land now functions as a source of inspiration; its beauty is cleansing and its vastness is satisfying. It is experienced as a means of escape and return—escape from unsolvable complexities and return—return to what? Why does the wilderness mean so much in the context of modern American society? Other countries have beautiful landscapes that they more or less take for granted. In Europe, Switzerland is often considered to be somewhat dull. It is not enough to say that the

MYTH AND MEANING

189

American people have achieved a higher degree of leisure time; even if this were true, there are many other w a y s of spending leisure time besides staying in motels, living out of campers, sleeping on the ground, and backpacking. Going to the wilderness is not just another w a y of occupying leisure time, it is a special w a y , which satisfies deep emotional and intellectual needs as well as providing a change of environment and activity. Considering the business investment in recreational development and advertising, the consumer investment in camping equipment, literature, and vehicles, and the emotional investment in conservation demands, it is as though the wilderness has become a religious shrine complete with temples, artifacts, and priests to which thousands of worshippers and penitents yearly make pilgrimage. While other societies reaffirm themselves through religious rituals and traditional observances, w e seem to accomplish this, at least in part, through a return to faith in the land of the West. In fact, it seems this land has become our tradition—a tradition based not on the West itself but on the myth of the West. The meanings of this tradition are to be f o u n d in the Western, particularly in the Western film, where the land's natural beauty is photographed with magnificent significance b y such masters as John Ford, Anthony Mann, and John Sturges. In these films, the wilderness/civilization opposition establishes associations with the land that w e can then experience in our own contact with it. A s w e have seen, the land is the hero's source of strength, both physical and moral; he is an independent and autonomous individual because he is part of the land. The strength that makes him unique and necessary to society and the beauty that makes him desirable to the girl are human counterparts to the strength and beauty of the wilderness. Moreover, the weakness of society and the villainy of the villains stem from their ignorance of the wilderness and their identification with the trappings of civilization. Thus, the man w h o accepts the wilderness, believes in it, and communes with it is stronger than civilization and capable of making it into something worthwhile. In the professional plot these meanings are simplified and enhanced. A l l the characters outside of society, good and bad, are identified with the land. Here is where freedom, independence, and strength lie as opposed to the cowardice, stupidity, greed, and conformity of society. Respect, friendship, and love are available to people w h o associate with the land, w h o may work in or for society (Rio Bravo, The Professionals, True Grit, The W a r Wagon) but w h o s e understanding and comfort derive from the wilderness. In the mythical context, it is clear how the land that embodies such meanings can become a fount of social values. Individuality,

190

MYTH AND MEANING

respect, acceptance, strength, freedom, and goodness are all associated with and therefore derived f r o m the m o u n t a i n s and deserts, lakes and streams of the West. T h e Western myth has taken the historical setting and shaped it into a model of the present, w h i c h states in concrete images the conceptual conflicts of m o d e r n America and resolves them through types of action. The western land, particularly the visual images of its landscape, is an integral part of the understanding and resolution of these conflicts; if the myth is to succeed as a myth, the land must take on these meanings. To the extent that the myth succeeds in making the past like the present, it also makes the present like the myth of the past. If the myth of the past is to provide a model for action in the present, then relevant aspects of the present must take on the meanings of that myth. In our association of historical landscape with mythical meanings, w e are r e m a r k a b l y similar to primitive societies. Radcliffe-Brown remarks of the A n d a m a n Islanders: The legends of a man's own tribe serve also to give a social value to the places with which he is familiar. The creeks and hills that he knows, the camping sites at which he lives, the reefs and rocks that act as landmarks by reason of any striking feature they may present, are all for him possessed of a historic interest that makes them dear to him. The very names, in many cases, recall events of the far-off legendary epoch. (Georges, p. 65)

Lévi-Strauss quotes T. G. H. Strehlow on the Northern Aranda: Mountains and creeks and springs and water-holes are, to him, not merely interesting or beautiful scenic features . . . they are the handiwork of ancestors from whom he himself has descended. He sees recorded in the surrounding landscape the ancient story of the lives and the deeds of the immortal beings w h o m he r e v e r e s . . . . The whole countryside is his living, age-old family tree. (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 243)

The significance of the landscape for the native is seen as arising from historical or imagined historical associations. Lévi-Strauss goes further and suggests that their "passionate love of the soil" results from the use of "these events and sites" as materials for the classificatory system of totemism. But neither of these accounts is complete, since myths are also a p r i m a r y source for understanding and modeling present action. Because myths fulfill this function, they create a conceptual need for the present setting to be as similar as possible to—i.e., to mean the same thing as—the setting in w h i c h the action took place in the myth of the past. The action that the myth presents as successful in the past should be conceptually satisfying and practicable as a model for the present. One more problem remains to be discussed. W h y myths? W h a t

MYTH AND MEANING

191

properties do myths possess that make them capable of fulfilling the conceptual functions I have described—signifying social differences necessitated by institutional contradictionsand establishing possibilities of reconciliation based upon models of interaction? I have tried to show the relation between myths and society by arguing that myths reconcile deep social conflicts through models of action; myths do this through their binary structure of images and their narrative structure of action. But I have not shown why myths satisfy these conceptual needs. This is essentially a psychological question —what is the relation between myths and the mind?—whereas my interest has been primarily social. This question is the central concern of Lévi-Strauss, who feels that anthropology, properly done, is a branch of psychology and that myths in particular are especially revealing of the properties of the human mind. His answer to the question is that myths reproduce and manifest the structure of the mind; therefore, they have meaning to the mind through their formal structure alone, a meaning which logically precedes any socially determined meanings this structure might contain. Myths can reconcile, or at least make understandable, the conceptual contradictions in a society because these concepts are embodied in a structure that communicates directly with the mind. Lévi-Strauss concludes his argument that each myth is a matrix of meanings in which both meanings and matrix refer to other meanings and matrices as follows: And if it is now asked to what final meanings these mutually significative meanings are referring—since in the last resort and in their totality they must refer to something—the only reply to emerge from this study is that myths signify the mind that evolves them by making use of the world of which it is itself a part. Thus, there is simultaneous production of myths themselves, by the mind that generates them and, by the myths, of an image of the world which is already inherent in the structure of the mind. (Lévi-Strauss, 1969, p. 341) If "the structure of the mind" means biological structure, as it sometimes seems to, then the argument is a definition, since LéviStrauss produces no independent evidence of biological structure. On the other hand, if it means the structure of symbolic consciousness, then I am in agreement with the analysis, except that it no longer explains the unique role of myth since this structure would be shared by all forms of symbolic communication—language, literature, conversation, and so forth. I would like to suggest another interpretation of the special place of myth in the process of human consciousness, which is at least as plausible as the "structure of the mind" notion of Lévi-Strauss. My interpretation stresses the one aspect of myths that is most responsible for their popularity, which Lévi-Strauss chooses to

192

MYTH AND MEANING

ignore systematically—their nature as stories or narratives. Rather than asking "why myths?", let us ask "why stories?" Stories appear in every human society: this is a universal social fact that is well known yet does not arouse the speculative interest and respect accorded such solid and dignified universals as the incest taboo and kinship structures. Stories are entertaining, and this generally suffices as an explanation of the form. The particular content of a story may be sociologically significant, but the form itself is rarely, if ever, considered problematic. Stories (myths) relieve boredom, permit escape, relate custom and history, enrich experience, reinforce values, relieve psychological conflict, produce social cohesion, create social conflicts (Leach), strengthen status demands, teach children violence; but all these alleged functions of stories are performed by their content. What is it about the form itself that gives stories this remarkable ability to accomplish such varied tasks? What is the relation between narrative and consciousness? I cannot answer this question, but I can suggest a direction in which an answer might lie. Narratives explain change; they have a beginning, middle, and end. A narrative is a temporal account of a sequence of events related by similarity of topic and by a relationship of explanation, or causality. These properties make possible the analysis of narrative structure that we have utilized in our theory of myth and in our study of the Western. There is also another very important aspect of narrative which we have not sufficiently considered. In a story, everything is important, all the actions and events are meaningful with respect to the unifying topic. To one degree or another all stories reconstruct events based upon the actual, possible, or desirable experiences of life. Yet all stories share a basic difference from life: every event experienced in a narrative is relevant to the success or failure of its actors, whereas many, if not most, of the events experienced by an individual in life are not at all relevant to his success or failure. If a man accidentally cuts his linger in a story, it will sooner or later save his life as well as the allied invasion of Europe ("36 Hours"); if he cuts his finger in life, it simply hurts. Similarly, the coughing scenes that I viewed as a child were always fatal to movie stars but never to my friends. Events in life must be interpreted as significant, events in narratives are inherently significant. In a story, if someone is late for an appointment, either something has happened or will happen as a result, or it gives an insight into the character important for an understanding of the conclusion—that is, either the event has been caused by something, will cause something, or provides the basis for another event to cause something. Every event is a beginning, middle, or end of a narrative sequence that explains a significant change.

MYTH AND MEANING

193

It may be objected that many writers and directors have recently attempted to include just such unimportant details in their novels and films in order to change and revolutionize their respective media in exactly this way. But the point is that all such details and irrelevant events become important and relevant simply by being included in a story. They may not be central to the action of the narrative, but they are central to our understanding of the action and its context. The narrative form itself makes them significant; they have been selected for inclusion because they provide the necessary context for understanding. If as the audience or readers of a story we can find no way to relate the details to the action, then we reject the story as unsuccessful. The ability to make the connections may depend upon education, intelligence, or experience, but the story is either dismissed as a failure or seen as simply a list of events, not a story at all. Thus, the narrative form is maximumly meaningful. It provides a far greater context of understanding than is possible in life itself. Yet it reproduces the order and experiences of life, at least in terms of motivations and communication. As humans—the users of symbols—we seek to find meaning in our ordinary experience. We must constantly choose, consciously or unconsciously, which of our experiences to consider significant and which insignificant, which to invest with emotional force and which to ignore. One way, perhaps the only way, to make this choice is to determine whether or not the experience can be connected with another significant experience as either its beginning, its cause, or its result. By locating an experience in a narrative sequence with other experiences, experiences are given meaning. The form stories take can be seen as a paradigm for making sense of life. Not only do stories demonstrate that experience can make sense, they also demonstrate how it makes sense, by showing that one important event causes another and by ignoring the unimportant events. Narrative form—the thing that makes a story a story and not a list of events—is also the form which human consciousness imposes on real experience to give it meaning. If I lose my job, it is because of the boss's perfidy, not my incompetence. Thus, the narrative sequence—I have a job, the boss is unfair, I lose the job—gives meaning to the experience and allows me to incorporate it into a larger sequence—I am happily married, I lose my job, my wife leaves me—and so on. Thus, narratives resonate, with human consciousness: one naturally by selecting events to fit the form, and one less naturally by forcing the form to fit all experience. In life meaning is problematic, in narrative it is not. Narrative form—the fact that in a story all events have meaning and all events are explained—interacts with the content of a narrative—its charac-

194

MYTH AND MEANING

ters and events—to create a structure that communicates conceptual meaning to the individuals who hear the story. The structure of narrative communicates ideas about social action; the form of narrative establishes the possibility of meaning—it is a primer for making sense of experience. This is probably why stories, even bad ones, are usually entertaining: the meaningful organization of events is in itself psychologically satisfying as well as instructive. This is probably also why all societies tell stories: they not only aid in the understanding of social action but reflect and reinforce the formal process of consciousness itself. What then is the relation between myths and consciousness? Myths are narratives, but they are a special case. Perhaps the most characteristic feature of myths, as opposed to other stories, is that their images are structured into binary oppositions. Lévi-Strauss argues that this reflects the structure of the mind, while I have argued that these oppositions create the symbolic difference necessary for simplicity of understanding together with the maximum resources for conceptual abstraction. The binary structure enables the images of myths to signify general and complex concepts (nature/culture, good/bad) and make them socially available. Myths also present images that are immediately recognizable, concrete objects and events that already have cultural meaning. Myths are easily understood, conceptually deep, and socially relevant; they reflect and reveal basic concerns and directions of their society. They may also model the fundamental approaches to the meaning and ordering of experience available to human consciousness. If the form of myth as narrative is a model for making sense of experience, then the content of particular myths embodies and makes possible this model. Structurally, myths present a conceptual model of felt social-psychological differences and of actions capable of bridging these differences, while formally myths present a structural model of meaning itself. The conceptual definition of social reality given in a myth is incorporated into, and understood with, the structural definition of consciousness by which we comprehend reality. The social meanings of myth may become identified with the fundamental organization of understanding by which the mind knows itself and its world. For this reason, it is apparent that if we are fully to understand and explain specific human actions, we must be able to relate those actions to the social narratives or myths of the society to which the actor belongs. It is at least partly through these myths that he makes sense of his world, and thus the meaning of his actions—both to himself and his society—can only be grasped through a knowledge of the structure and meaning of myth.

lv£ethod.ologrical Epilogue

In any work of this kind, certain methodological assumptions are made without which the analysis could not take place. Since these assumptions are usually hidden and a l w a y s ideological, I w o u l d like to conclude my study b y clarifying my own assumptions about the nature of myth and the significance of social science. My first assumption is the scientific one, that no social or natural phenomenon, including the Western, can be successfully studied until it has been conceptually divided into parts and its domain of scholarly interest restricted. Neither the falling apple nor the Western can be analyzed as they are experienced; both events must first be conceptually simplified and thus generalized. Seeing a Western is an experience that does not occur in this book. On the other hand, an understanding of the Western which is not possible simply from watching a movie, does occur. F o r understanding to take place, the experience must be interpreted from within an analytic framework that neither contradicts the experience nor exhausts it. This framework is not simply imposed on the experience by the scholarly mind but is inherent in the experience itself, and it is conceptually revealed by the scholarly mind. The tests the scientific community has established for such a claim are replicability and predictability; and I believe that if these tests are applied to my analysis, its empirical validity will be upheld. However, even if the analysis is valid, it does not exhaust the experience of the Western, and thus its importance for an understanding of the myth can be challenged. And so, another claim must be made—that the analysis is not only a valid conceptualization of the experience but that it is of primary significance f o r an 195

196

METHODOLOGICAL EPILOGUE

understanding of the experience. My study is not only an accurate analysis but also a significant explanation of the Western. There are many aspects of the Western film that, for the purposes of this study, I have set aside and more or less ignored. One important feature that I have simply abstracted away from it is the personalities of the stars—actors such as John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and Clint Eastwood. The personalities of these men are captured on the film and contribute greatly to the experience of the film; but I have not incorporated this contribution into my analysis. Another aspect I have not developed is the justification and ritualization of violence, though many commentators on the Western have stressed this as its central meaning. The Western can be studied as a commentary on American history and our frontier culture, and this is another approach that I have slighted. Each of these and many other aspects of the Western are part of the experience of seeing them. But like any scholar, I have chosen to select one aspect of the myth—its conceptual and narrative structure—and to offer this aspect as its fundamental characteristic. Others might take another aspect (say violence or personality styles) and claim it is the essential core of the Western. Whenever such a claim is presented, it is necessary to know on what grounds it is being made and in what way it can be validated. Seeing a Western is not simply an experience, it is a meaningful experience. Empirical claims can be made about the experience and tested. W e can observe and agree on its story, its dialogue, its setting, its length, the number of characters, the color of their hats, and so on. Further, we can agree through empirical observation as to whether a specific framework of analysis—violence, structure, or whatever—is substantiated by the films themselves, by the data. Thus, the empirical nature of the experience constrains the possibilities of analysis and interpretation—we cannot analyze Shane as a musical. Although we can agree on these things, they are not what we are seeking to understand. What we want to understand is what makes the experience of the Western meaningful—why do we enjoy it? As an experience, a Western film may include violence, heroic personalities, mountains, symbolic structure; but what we want to know is which of these aspects makes it meaningful. Locating the source of meaning is not as simple as validating the existence of structure or violence. Meaning is not something that can be pointed to or hit with a hammer; it must be communicated—that is, meaning does not exist in the world, it exists in a relationship between things in the world and a person or group of people. Meaning cannot be observed; it can only be interpreted.

METHODOLOGICAL EPILOGUE

197

This characteristic of meaning implies that locating the source of meaning in a Western, or in any phenomenon, is not an empirical problem. After agreeing on all the empirical properties of the phenomenon, if people still disagree on its meaning, there are no further empirical standards by which to settle the dispute. Meaning only exists through an interpretation, and once the facts are known, no amount of tests or data can "prove" which interpretation is correct. Clearly, then, we cannot know on empirical grounds whether it is the structure of the Western or some other aspect, such as violence or history, that gives it its social meaning. But this does not mean that no decision can be made as to which claim is correct. It only means that the decision cannot be made on empirical grounds. To understand how the decision can be made, we must look at another aspect of the interpretative relationship between people and things that establishes meaning. To say that an interpretation of meaning cannot be changed through an accumulation of empirical evidence does not mean it cannot be changed; in fact, since meaning is a relationship between people and things, it is possible and quite common for the meaning of something to change while the thing itself remains empirically the same. A new interpretation of something does not happen because of massive new evidence, although new evidence may be involved; rather it takes place because the person involved has been made aware of the possibility of perceiving the same evidence in a new way—he has undergone what has been called a "Gestalt switch." Optical illusions work in this way, as does the familiar drawing of the rabbit which can also be seen as a duck. In life, a familiar example is when white racists learn to like and respect black people by being forced to live and work with them; or when an ugly house becomes suddenly beautiful when you recognize it as the location of happy childhood memories. Once some aspect of the world has been seen in a new way, however, it can no longer be seen in exactly the same way as before. After the duck has been seen as a duck/rabbit, it can no longer be seen simply as a duck. Once we have become aware of the Oedipus Complex, we can no longer have quite the same open, affectionate relationship with our mother (or father). Thus a change in our interpretation of the world implies a change in the meaning of the world, and consequently a change in our relationship to the world. This possibility of reinterpreting the world is especially interesting and challenging to the scholar or scientist, who is in the business of interpreting the world. Such work, if empirically successful, will present a new way of interpreting an old experience. The scholar may be studying the empirical world, but he is necessarily interfer-

198

METHODOLOGICAL EPILOGUE

ing with and influencing the meaning the world holds for those who are affected by the work. To the degree that the researcher is interested in that meaning as a scientist, he or she must take into account in the study the effect that the study will have on what is being studied. This does not mean, as some have claimed, that the scholar must not only study the world but must study his or her study of the world at the same time, for that idea quickly leads to an infinite regress. Also it is based on an empiricist idea of what is to be studied. It does mean, however, that the scholar should recognize the possible effects of a study while formulating it and carrying it out, should be explicit about the relationship of the work to the world being studied and be able to justify that relationship. I was quite conscious as I did the study that I was selecting some aspects of each film and ignoring others. But this selection has enabled me to reinterpret the Western myth. Instead of a series of films that repeats "near-juvenile formulas" (Smith), "a serious orientation to the problem of violence" (Warshow), or "the contrasting images of Garden and Desert" (Kitses), I have suggested that the Westerns, as I see it, represent a conceptual model for social action. To support this suggestion, I have in effect reconstituted the Western myth, taking it apart and putting it back together again in a special way. Thus instead of one Western myth with many manifestations, there are now four basic plots, each with its own structure and meaning. Finally, while reinterpreting and reconstituting the Western, I have presented a work that alters its meaning. Until now, no one has argued systematically that the Western represents forms of actions and understanding that are inherent in the changing economic institutions of America; this argument, whether accepted or not, establishes a new way of perceiving the Western and, thus, it undermines and makes questionable the old perceptions of it. Once the duck has been viewed as a duck/rabbit, it can no longer be seen simply as a duck. Whatever is the source of meaning in the experience of a Western—symbolic structure, violence, or Oedipal repressions—my study has offered a new source of meaning available to conscious, rational perception. People who read this book will see Westerns in a new way. In that sense I have recreated the Western. This leaves me with the task of making explicit what the effects of the study will be and of justifying those effects. I must finally show on what basis a decision as to the validity of different interpretations of meaning can be made, and how my interpretation of the meaning of the Western can be shown, on this basis, to be the most scientifically correct one. When I assert that as a scientist I must justify my work, most

METHODOLOGICAL EPILOGUE

199

scientists will object with varying degrees of indignation. They would agree that work should be justified but believe it to be implicitly justified by the nature of the case—that is, they believe scientific knowledge is justified by it very existence, since we should seek knowledge for its own sake. This is indeed one way to justify scholarly work, but it is not convincing. If taken to its logical conclusion, few if any scientists would defend it; for logically it justifies the horrors of the human experimentation in Nazi concentration camps and any other experiments on humans and societies that might increase our sum of knowledge. The real basis for the claim of knowledge for its own sake is not scientific but political—the idea is that if we have a society in which the search for knowledge is not interfered with (i.e., knowledge for its own sake), then we will have intellectual freedom and the good society will result. Thus even the purest argument for science is finally based on an idea of building a good society, making life better for people. The reality of science is, of course, based neither on the search for knowledge nor on the good society, but on national and economic interests. Experiments are performed on blacks in Tuskeegee and on the poor in hospitals every day; smart bombs and defoliants are developed to protect overseas economic investments; nitrates are plowed into the ground to increase the profits of agribusiness, though they poison the water we drink. These events disturb many scientists, since the justification of their work is based on the idea of doing good for the world. In any case, it seems that the only rational basis for seeking knowledge is to improve the condition of people and to try to maximize human happiness and dignity. I assume that one way, and perhaps the most important way, to increase the possibility of a meaningful life for all people is to try to make people rationally aware of the conditions under which they live. If they understand the empirical conditions of their lives, then they can either accept them as reasonable or act to change them in a rational, effective way. But if they do not understand the world in which they live, they can neither accept it honestly nor succeed in improving it. Thus I assume that people can and should act rationally to control their own lives, but I do not assume that they are entirely rational creatures who are constantly calculating means to ends. Thinkers such as Plato and Edmund Burke have pointed out that society is not held together by rational analysis but by traditions and myths. While I agree with them, I do not accept their conclusion that myths and traditions are antithetical to rational analysis. Cultural forms such as myths and traditions present an interpretation of social reality. This interpretation can be either a simplified but accurate portrayal of real conditions or

200

METHODOLOGICAL EPILOGUE

a false portrayal of those conditions. Myths and traditions are not opposed to reason but are forms of reasoning; therefore, they can serve either to aid or to obstruct understanding and control. Many scientists such as B. F. Skinner and Arthur Jensen believe that the best society can be achieved by maximizing technological control of natural processes; educating a few technically skilled managers or controllers, and keeping the rest of the population conditioned, comfortable followers of social myths, but essentially ignorant of their real social conditions. Most scientists behave as if they believe this, simply by their continuing to study natural processes in a world in which their results will inevitably be used for this purpose. I reject this idea of science, and believe that the only just and livable society is one in which each person is aware—through public knowledge, social myths, as well as science—of the real conditions that structure his life. With this knowledge, each person can partake effectively in all decisions that affect his life. As a scholar, I may study myths, but my concern is with analysis and reason; thus I assume that the only studies that can be scientifically justified are those that contribute to a better world—studies that will not decrease but only increase the understanding and control people have over their own lives. My analysis explains why the Western is meaningful to us and constitutes a valid explanation of that meaning. This claim of validity is not an empirical one, since a correct interpretation of meaning cannot be established empirically. The basis of the claim of validity, therefore, is not empirical but political. This study recreates the Western and gives it a new meaning. Thus the work itself is political, since interpretations of the meaning of the empirical world are the basis of social and political action. Since this work, like any scientific work, enters into the world as a basis for action, it must be judged by the standards that form the basis of science—whether it attempts to create a better world by making more people rationally conscious of their own lives and social conditions. My interpretation of the Western will be the most valid to date if, more than any other, it adheres to this standard. I believe that it does, though in this case this is not much of a distinction. There have been very few analyses of the Western; those that exist are mostly superficial and precious. They have no methodology; they are not systematic; they are based mostly on preconceived categories and make virtually no reference to the social context of the myth. No analysis I have seen makes any effort to understand the ideology of American society inherent in all of our forms of entertainment, though it is only by analyzing the ideology in the myth and its relation to objective social conditions that a

METHODOLOGICAL EPILOGUE

201

study of the Western or of any genre can claim to increase the rational consciousness of that society. Analyses based on violence, or the Oedipus Complex, or the Garden and the Desert cannot increase understanding of real social conditions because they do not analyze those conditions and their relation to the Western. My analysis of the Western is certainly incomplete; hopefully, it will be expanded and improved upon. But it is scientifically right in the sense that it does not attempt to take the Western out of its social and economic setting but to integrate it into that setting in order to make the entire society, not just a part of it, more understandable. If the empirical arguments are valid, then the interpretation is valid, because it is the only interpretation to date that recognizes its own political nature and uses it to help to realize and make available an objective social analysis, which in its small way might further the goal of creating a decent world. And that is, or should be, what science is all about.

.ZLppexieLix

Lévi-Strauss has insisted that primitive man is significantly different from modern man. Specifically, each thinks in a different w a y : The primitive thinks with myths, modern man with science and history. For this reason, according to Lévi-Strauss, modern man does not have myths; at least he does not have myths that can be fruitfully analyzed with the structural method. I believe, however, that the myths of modern society are essentially similar to those of primitive society. In this A p p e n d i x I will show where I believe Lévi-Strauss makes his error; it is an important error, for it involves a relationship that Lévi-Strauss has analyzed with remarkable insight, the relationship of myth and history. For Lévi-Strauss, myth is an intellectual means for resolving a conceptual contradiction or duality in a particular society. The structure of a myth establishes the terms of the duality and then "mediates" between them, thereby resolving the dilemma in the primitive mind. The nature of this dilemma or contradiction varies in the work of Lévi-Strauss from a purely theoretical contradiction (about the origin of man in Oedipus), to a contradiction in social practice (between the custom of cross-cousin marriage and the customs of residence and inheritance in A s d i w a i ) , to an experienced conceptual duality (between nature and culture in the hundreds of myths from South America). Of these possible interpretations of myth, only the last is of special interest to us. In the Mythologiques, Lévi-Strauss finds overwhelming evidence of a conceptual need among the primitive tribes of central South A m e r i c a to distinguish between and relate the two realms of nature and culture. Their 203

204

APPENDIX

myths are full of animals and humans who exchange the necessities and artifacts of culture—fire, cooked food, ornaments, and so on. Lévi-Strauss contends that this difference and this theoretical relationship are of utmost importance to the people of these societies for understanding their experience. Nature versus culture is a paramount opposition in their explanation of their world. He explains the importance of this duality to primitive man by distinguishing the thinking, or explanatory, processes of historical from primitive societies. Whereas the former recognize and use history in their explanations of themselves, the latter have no idea of a continuous history but understand only the recurrent and interchangeable cycle of seasons. Some accept it, with good or ill grace, and its c o n s e q u e n c e s (to themselves and other societies) assume immense proportions through their attention to it. Others (which w e call primitive for this reason) want to deny it and try, with a dexterity w e underestimate, to make the states of their development w h i c h they consider 'prior' as permanent as possible. (1966, p. 234)

Historical societies, which conceive a continuous and changing past, rely on a causal and linear mode of explanation in which the present follows from the past and the reference for explanation—the past—is infinite and temporally unavailable. Primitive societies, on the other hand, rely on an analogical mode of explanation where the reference is discontinuous, finite, and present to experience; that is, they explain themselves through an analogy to nature. Nature—the experience of species, plants, natural events—provides both the immediate means of survival and a conceptual map of differences that can be used to account for differences in human society. Totemism postulates a logical equivalence b e t w e e n a society of natural species and a world of social groups. . . . [Primitive men] assume the symbolic characteristics by w h i c h they distinguish different animals (and w h i c h furnish them with a natural model of differentiation) to create differences among themselves. . . . [T]he system of social functions corresponds to the system of natural species, the world of living creatures to the world of objects, and w e must therefore recognize the system of natural species and that of manufactured objects as t w o mediating sets w h i c h man employs to overcome the opposition b e t w e e n nature and culture and think of them as a whole. (1966, pp. 104, 108, 127)

Thus, Lévi-Strauss divides human societies into two categories: the historical and the nonhistorical. The former understand themselves as part of a historical process; they are interested in and

APPENDIX

205

maintain records about their past. The latter are uninterested in their past except as part of a recurring cycle of seasons. Each cycle is just like the last cycle; no changes are acknowledged and no records are kept. These societies, which we call "primitive," are characterized by La pensée sauvage (translated as "the savage mind")—"mind in its untamed state," which relies on the resources ..and limitations of mythical thought. Historical societies, on the other hand, are characterized by domesticated thought—"mind cultivated or domesticated for the purpose of yielding a return" (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 219). These societies are generally restricted to the possibilities inherent in scientific and historical thought. Mythical thought differs from scientific-historical thought in two important ways, according to Lévi-Strauss. First, mythical thought uses signs—concepts attached to the concrete objects and events of ordinary experience. The immediate, existential world provides the conceptual apparatus by which the savage mind performs complicated intellectual analysis and organization. These signs carry a lived meaning that transcends their function as logical terms, thus providing mythical thought with a layer of significance greater than that necessary for its intellectual needs. Science, on the other hand, attempts to understand the world of experience primarily through the use of abstractions—concepts that refer to similar, abstracted properties of objects and events, but do not refer to any of the concrete things themselves. The concepts of science are detached from experience and carry only the meanings given to them within the scientific endeavor. The second difference is more important for our purposes here: mythical thought is analogical, whereas historical thought is analytical. The savage mind creates its intellectual structures by mirroring the properties of real structures; conceptual order, particularly classification of differences, is determined by analogy with experienced order. The savage mind "builds mental structures which facilitate an understanding of the world in as much as they resemble it" (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 263). Specifically, this untamed mind utilizes the discontinuities and relations of nature to classify and organize the human world. Culture is analogous to nature, and the fundamental task of mythical thought—both as totemism and as myth—is to establish an understandable relationship between nature and culture. Totemism does this by postulating a "homology between two parallel series—that of natural species and that of social groups" (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 224). Myth does it by finding mediators between nature and culture, thus providing for conceived relationships while maintaining conceptual separation. In both cases, discontinuities are stressed: natural species are absolutely different and

206

APPENDIX

therefore useful; culture is not part of nature, it is like nature. This logical as well as concrete separation makes it possible for one finite and existing group to reflect and be explained by another finite and existing group. Natural species account for social differences, and they are continually observable and available for reference. The relationship is not diachronic but synchronic, not temporal but systemic. Totemic classifications no doubt divide themselves into an original and a derivative series; the former contains zoological and botanical species in their supernatural aspect, the latter human groups in their cultural aspect, and the former is asserted to have existed before the latter, having in some sort engendered it. The original species, however, lives on in diachrony through animal and plant species, alongside the human series. The two series exist in time but under an atemporal regime, since, being both real, they sail through time together, remaining such as they were at the moment of separation. (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 233)

For this reason, "the characteristic feature of the savage mind is its timelessness" (1966, p. 263). It is not concerned with history; for its source of explanation is contemporary with—but different from— what is to be explained, and its mode of understanding is analogy across that difference. Historical thought stresses continuities. What is to be explained— the present—is not separate from, but is continuous with, what explains it—the past. Its mode is not analogy but analysis, in the sense that unapparent similarities are sought rather than apparent differences enhanced. The past explains the present through linear cause and effect, not by being superimposed as a conceptual map. Past and present are of the same logical order—contingent—but they are different in time; whereas in mythical thought, nature and culture are similar in time but are of a different logical order—one is necessary and the other contingent. Historical thought derives the present from the past; the connection is direct and continuous. Understanding the present depends upon understanding the past (just as understanding culture depends upon understanding nature); but instead of classification into two finite, juxtaposed, timeless series, there is now one unending series whose terms are casually, and therefore temporally, related. When . . . a society sides with history, classification into finite groups becomes impossible because the derivative series, instead of reproducing the original series, merges with it to form a single series in which each term is derivative in relation to the one preceding it and original in relation to the one coming after it. Instead of a once-for-all homology between two series each finite and discontinuous in its

APPENDIX

207

own right, a continuous evolution is postulated within a single series that accepts an unlimited number of terms. (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 233)

Lévi-Strauss makes it clear that the differences between historical and mythical thought lie primarily in their modes of explanation, not in their accuracy. History, like totemism, is interpretive and therefore varies from group to group. The meaning of the past and often the facts of the past are determined by present interests, and historical explanation is inevitably oriented toward those interests. The French Revolution, he points out, can be interpreted in many ways—each with a claim to accuracy—depending upon the sympathies of the interpreter. For a Frenchman some understanding of this revolution is necessary; he must accept some form of what LéviStrauss calls "the myth of the French Revolution." "I am prepared to grant that the contemporary Frenchman must believe in this myth in order fully to play the part of an historical agent" (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 254). This is a strange use of the word "myth" for LéviStrauss, and in context seems to mean simply a belief that is "completely and intensely" accepted as true but cannot possibly be true. It is not a myth in the sense in which he usually employs the term: a form of conceptual expression that utilizes the resources of mythical thought. Lévi-Strauss seems to be saying that, in a historical society, each man must deeply hold an account of his social past—institutions, wars, leaders—that explains his social present, even though this account cannot- be verified. It must be held because, when a society accepts history as its mode of explanation, it must provide such explanations as the bases for conceptual order and personal identity. But by calling this account a myth, Lévi-Strauss seems to ignore his distinction between historical and mythical thought at exactly the point where it should be stressed. For this account is based on historical thought, not mythical thought, and the difference is important. An historical explanation—"the myth of the French Revolution," say—provides an understanding of the present; it locates the society, and thus the individual, in a process of historical change where present social conditions are the result of past social events. But it does not locate the individual or the society in the future, a conceptual feat that only mythical thought can effect. By definition, in a historical series of events, the next event is unique with respect to the preceding ones, which explain it but do not reflect it. In explanations based on analogical thought, the next event is reflected by the explaining sequence; that is, the future is the same as the past, and both are explained not by temporal sequence but by comparison with a continuing and independent series. In mythical thought, culture is conceived as a timeless and repeating cycle of

208

APPENDIX

events, and nature both explains and describes the events. The future is "known" to be the same as the past, and it therefore presents no problem. In historical thought, whether an account is "true" or "mythical," the past explains the present, but the existing series of events cannot describe the nonexisting series. The future is "known" to be different from the past, so it presents a problem for action that cannot be solved by historical thought alone. This problem can be solved, however, by mythical thought; that is, the kind of conceptual process that makes the present alive in the past. Modern societies understand themselves partly through historical logic, but also partly through the kind of analogical thinking that Lévi-Strauss has found in primitive myths. Only in historical societies the analogy is necessarily different—where primitive societies are concerned with the relation between nature and culture, modern societies are concerned with the relation between past and present. This is obvious in the case of history, but it is also true of one important kind of modern myth, of which the Western is an example. Through history the past is postulated as the locus of an understanding of the present, but history alone cannot provide an understanding of the past as a ground for present action and involvement. This understanding must be created through historical myths, which establish an analogy between past and present in the same way that primitive myths establish an analogy between nature and culture. To better understand this idea, we must look closer at the nature of the "savage mind" according to Lévi-Strauss. In the primitive societies he studies, mythical thought is expressed in two basic cultural forms, totemism and myths. Totemism is classificatory: it postulates the nature/culture analogy and classifies social groups according to species differences. In totemism, culture is described and explained in terms of nature. But this requires that if culture is to be fully understood, nature must also be understood—its similarities, differences, and basic relationship to culture. Totemism establishes the similarity of culture to nature (nature is mapped onto culture), but it does not reverse the direction. Nor is it primarily concerned with the differences and the relationship between nature and culture. These problems, as Lévi-Strauss shows, are resolved in the domain of myth. Myths personify nature, thereby establishing the similarity of nature to culture (culture is mapped onto nature). In myths, nature is described and explained in terms of culture. Myths also stress the differences between nature and culture—raw food versus cooked food, man versus jaguar, and so forth. Nature is like culture, but it is absolutely separate from it. There are, however, "mediators" that bridge the separation: fire, the monkey, the jaguar's wife. Through these mediators—that is, through the

APPENDIX

209

narrative action of the myth—a relationship is established between nature and culture. In this way, myths together with totemism create a complete conceptual picture of the relation between nature and culture. Each is like the other, so that each explains the other; but they are fundamentally different, so that the explanations are truly explanatory. Finally, they are connected through action, and the nature of the relationship that establishes and permits that action is known and understood through myths. In this regard it is important to note that, while nature classifies culture through totemism, it is the myths that explain and model the possibilities of action across those classifications. For it is to the extent that nature is like culture that the action relationships observable in nature and understandable through culture (myths) are available as models of cultural action. Thus, for example, a member of the bear clan could and probably would act according to how bear behavior was understood in his society. As Lévi-Strauss puts it, a totemistic society does not confine itself to a b s t r a c t c o n t e m p l a t i o n of a s y s t e m of c o r r e s p o n d e n c e but rather f u r n i s h e s the i n d i v i d u a l m e m b e r s of these s y s t e m s with a pretext a n d s o m e t i m e s even a p r o v o c a t i o n to distinguish themselves by their b e h a v i o r . Radin, referring to the W i n n e b a g o , very rightly insists on the r e c i p r o c a l influence of religious a n d mythical c o n c e p t i o n s of a n i m a l s on the one h a n d and the political f u n c t i o n s of social units on the other. (Lévi-Strauss, 1966, p. 170)

Turning to modern societies, we find that history as a mode of explanation satisfies some but not all of the conceptual functions necessary for a workable understanding of the relation between past and present. Like totemism, history is concerned with two conceptually distinct aspects of experience: the past and the present. Also like totemism, history is classificatory: society in the present is composed of elements that were created and developed in the past. The present is described and explained in terms of the past. But in history, the mode of explanation is not analogy but cause and effect: the present is derived from the past, whereas culture is modeled on nature. Because of this difference in explanations, history can provide a direct, causal relationship between past and present, while totemism can only postulate the similarity between nature and culture. Both historical and mythical thought are based on a fundamental distinction between conceptual domains; therefore, it is necessary for both to establish a relationship, a mode of interaction, between these domains. In totemistic societies, myths explain this relationship by showing how certain actions and objects create, or once created, a common ground for communication and reciprocity between nature and culture; in historical societies, the logic of

210

APPENDIX

history demonstrates how past actions caused present conditions. In both cases, particular human actions are understood as providing the basis for a conceptual relationship. Thus (like totemism), history stresses the similarity of the present to the past (culture to nature); and like myth, it establishes a relationship between past and present (between nature and culture). History fulfills one other conceptual function of totemistic myth—it stresses the differences between the two conceptual domains of past and present. History is conceived of as a continuous, causally connected series of events. The past causes the present; the present does not cause the past. The past is both describable and explanatory; but the present is only describable, it explains nothing. Because history is a continuous, temporal series of events, the most recent events—the present—imply following events, the future. But the present can neither describe nor explain the future. Because of the temporal nature of causality, history insists on the essential difference between past and present. One consequence of this is that history alone does not provide a sufficient ground for action. Human action assumes a knowledge of the present as well as an understanding of what the result of the action will be, what effect it will cause. This understanding requires the availability of a general notion of the relation between the present and the future, and the role of action in that relation. And this notion, strictly speaking, is not a part of the logic of historical explanation. If such a notion is generally available, its source cannot lie simply in the acceptance of history as a form of explanation. This may seem like a rarefied point since action itself is not problematic and we often, if not always, use our knowledge of history as a basis for action decisions; but the point is that our knowledge of history is not completely or even primarily the scholarly knowledge that Lévi-Strauss assumes as the basis for his distinction. As a ground for action, our knowledge of history includes traditions, customs, and interpretations of the relevance of the past to the present that are neither justified nor supported by history as such. Although the strength and validity of these interpretations is weaker in modern societies than in primitive societies, they still exist and are necessary if only because of the lacuna in history as a mode of understanding and explanation. In modern societies, as in primitive societies, these interpretations are expressed and conceptually motivated through the analogical resources of myth, only now the myths relate past and present rather than nature and culture. Modern historical myths like the Western personify the past, just as totemistic myths personify nature. In addition, such myths create the present in the past. Except as a setting, the Western myth is not concerned with the actual events and people of the West; rather,

APPENDIX

211

it uses the western setting to code kinds of people in fundamental relationships that exist and are problematic in modern life. The situations and characters of the Western myth are constructed through an analogy with the situations and motivations of the present. Basic changes in modern life make this point clear, for both the code and the narrative of the Western have been found to undergo transformations in accordance with these changes. The Western, and all such historical myths, describe the past in terms of the present, whereas history describes the present in terms of the past. Historical myths therefore fulfill the last of what seem to be the necessary requirements for a complete and explanatory relationship between two distinct domains of experience, in this case past and present—history relates the present to the past (the past causes the present), stresses their differences, and establishes an action (causal) relationship; myth relates the past to the present (the present is mapped onto the past). Perhaps a simple diagram will indicate more clearly the roles of history and myth as well as the central differences in the explanatory resources of primitive and historical societies.

Historical Society past/present Myth

History past ^ past | past

present present present

present

» past

Primitive Society nature/culture Totemism nature

^

Myth

culture

": * ": | ": ":

culture » nature nature | culture nature ^ culture

explains is mapped onto is different from is related through action to

212

APPENDIX

As the diagram shows, myth in modern societies retains only one of its conceptual functions, but it is a crucial one. Myth reproduces the conditions and concerns of the present in the past; the past no longer simply causes the present, it is also like the present and becomes a conceptual model of contemporary social consciousness. Through images that mean more than they seem to, historical myths illustrate how the conflicts of the present were successfully resolved in history. The past explains the problems of the present; and to the degree that the past is like the present, it also explains how to solve those problems. For if the present is similar to the past, then the effects of actions in the present will necessarily be similar to the effects of the same kinds of actions in the past. Historical myths conceptualize both the possibilities and the consequences of actions in the present. Mythically, at least, the future can be discovered through the past. Thus, in modern societies myths provide the ground for action excluded by the logic of history. These myths, like primitive myths, conceptualize the world in concrete images from experience—men, women, action, objects. History conceptualizes in abstractionsdates, laws, classes, institutions. This difference suggests another reason why myths are necessary to historical societies for a model for action. We may understand the general context of action in terms of historical or scientific abstractions; but in specific, everyday instances unreflective action must be conceived in terms of concrete images that define the specific nature of the action and its general meaning. In this respect, it seems, historical thought has not seriously encroached upon the properties of the savage mind. In both primitive and historical societies, an explanatory analogy between two distinct conceptual domains provides a model for action; it seems reasonable that such an analogy may be necessary for human action. As the diagram shows, myths in totemistic societies do more conceptual work; and this fact may account for Lévi-Strauss' rejection of mythical thought as applicable to historical societies. Lévi-Strauss' concern is exclusively conceptual—he is not particularly interested in the possibilities of action or in the relation of concepts to action—and from his mentalist perspective he is essentially correct: history has replaced totemism as a classificatory system, and it has replaced myth as a mode of explanation of society. It has not, however, and probably cannot replace myth as a ground for ordinary social actions; and for this reason modern myths are as structurally complicated and as socially important as the myths of primitive societies.

Selectiire Bibliogprsiplasr

Barnet, Richard J. 1972 Roots of War. Atheneum, New York. Bazin, André 1971 What is Cinema? University of California Press, Berkeley. Burke, Kenneth 1969 A Rhetoric of Motives. University of California Press, Los Angeles. Cawelti, John G. 1971 The Six-Gun Mystique. Bowling Green Popular Press, Bowling Green, Ohio. Commoner, Barry 1971 The Closing Circle. Alfred A. Knopf, New York. Danto, Arthur C. 1968 Analytical Philosophy of History. Cambridge University Press, London. Drucker, Peter F. 1970 Technology, Management, and Society. Harper and Row, New York and Evanston. Emery, P. E. 1959 "Psychological Effects of the Western Film: A Study in Television Viewing," Human Relations, Vol. 12, No. 3.' Galbraith, John Kenneth 1968 The New Industrial State. T h e New American Library, New York. Georges, Robert A. 1968 Studies on Mythology. T h e Dorsey Press, Homewood, Illinois. Habermas, Jürgen 1970 Toward a Rational Society. Beacon Press, Boston. 213

214

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Jakobson, R. (with M. Halle) 1956 Fundamentals of Language. Mouton and Co., The Hague. Kitses, Jim 1969 Horizons West. Thames and Hudson, Ltd., London. Lévi-Strauss, Claude 1966 The Savage Mind. University of Chicago Press, Chicago, Illinois. 1967a Structural Anthropology. Anchor Books, Doubleday, Garden City, New York. 1967b "The Story of Asdiwal," in The Structural Study of Myth and Totemism. Edmund Leach, (editor). Tavistock Publications, London. 1969 The R a w and the Cooked. Harper and Row, New York. Macfcherson, C. B. 1962 The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism. Oxford University Press, London. Munden, Kenneth J., M.D. 1958 "A Contribution to the Psychological Understanding of the Cowboy and His Myth," American Imago, Vol. 15, No. 2. Propp, Vladimir 1968 Morphology of the Folktale. University of Texas Press, Austin. Polanyi, Karl 1965 The Great Transformation. Beacon Press, Boston. Saussure, F. de. 1960 Course in General Linguistics. Philosophical Library, New York. Smith, Henry Nash 1950 The Virgin Land. Vintage Books, Random House, New York. U.S. Congress, Senate, Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities. 1973 Watergate and Related Activities. Phase 1: Watergate Investigation. 73rd Congress, 1st Session. Warshow, Robert 1964 The Immediate Experience. Anchor Books, Doubleday, Garden City, New York.

IxicLex

Alamo, The, 167, 169, 173 Along Came Jones, 30

Cimarron, 32, 47, 85, 140, 145, 146, 151 classical plot, 32 ff, 130 ff, 186 Colt 45, 29 Commancheros, The, 167, 173 Commoner, Barry, 174 Cowboys, The, 29, 173

Bazin, André, 6 Barnet, Richard, 131 Bend of the River, 47, 52, 54, 85, 140, 141, 145, 146, 151 Big Country, The, 13, 57 Big Jake, 112, 167, 172, 173 binary oppositions, 20, 26, 49 ff, 69

Danto, Arthur, 125 ff Davis, David Brian, 6 Destry Rides Again, 97, 139, 140, 146, 147 Dodge City, 35, 40 ff, 97, 140, 144, 146, 147, 151 Drucker, Peter, 178 Duel in the Sun, 37, 41 ff, 140, 145, 146, 151

ff, 80 ff, 114 ff, 138 ff, 166, 182 binary structure, 20, 21, 23 Broken Arrow, 57, 77, 80 ff, 165,166 Burke, Kenneth, 17 ff, 185 Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 85, 95, 98 ff, 168, 169, 172, 173 California, 48 Canyon Passage, 36, 40 ff, 140, 141, 142, 144, 146, 151 Cawelti, John, 6 Charge of Feather River, The, 30 Cheyenne Autumn, 29 Cheyenne Social Club, 30 Chisum, 29, 140

Emery, F. E., 7 El Dorado, 112, 116, 121, 167, 168, 173 Far Country, The, 38, 41 ff, 139,140, 144, 145, 146, 147, 151 Fort Apache, 30 215

216

INDEX

Galbraith, John Kenneth, 131, 174, 175, 177, 178, 182 Gunfight at the O.K. Corrai,

One-Eyed Jacks, 157, 159, 161

62, 65 ff, 154, 156,

30

Hang 'Em High, 154, 159, 160 Habermas, Jurgen, 132,134,176,177 High Noon, 75, 82 ff, 165, 166 Homans, Peter, 6 Ho mòre, 141, 146, 151 Hondo, 29

Plainsman, The, 151 Propp, Vladimir, 25 Polanyi, Karl, 132, 135 possessive individualism, 136, 140 professional plot, 85 ff, 164 ff, 166 ff, 187 Professionals, The, 90, 99 ff, 168, 172, 173, 189

ideology of technology, 134, 177 ideology of the market, 134

Radcliff-Brown, A. R„ 8, 190

Jakobson, Roman, 22 Johnny Guitar, 14, 78, 80 ff, 165,166

Rio Bravo, 85, 88, 97 ff, 167, 168, 172, 173, 189 Rio Lobo, 167, 173

Kitses, Jim, 7 Kluckhohn, Clyde, 9

San Antonio, 48, 140, 144, 146, 151 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 22 Searchers, The, 65, 154, 156, 157,

Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 16 ff, 185,187,

158, 160, 161 Shane, 33, 34, 40 ff, 8 5 , 1 3 9 , 1 4 0 , 1 4 2 , 144, 145, 146, 147, 151 She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, 30 Smith, Henry Nash, 1 Stagecoach, 32, 59, 60 ff, 156, 159, 160, 161

190, 191, 203 ff Little Big Man, 30 MacPherson, C. B., 136, 137, 182 Malinowski, Bronislaw, 9 Man from Laramie, The, 61, 65 ff, 154, 156, 158, 161 market economy, 132 ff, 140, 174, 181 Motion Picture Herald, 29 Munden, Kenneth, 7 Naked

Spur, The, 154, 159, 160, 161

narrative functions, 25 ff, 40 ff, 65 ff, 99 ff, 142, 155, 168 narrative sequence, 125 ff, 143 ff, 155 ff, 168 ff, 179, 192 ff narrative structure, 24, 124 ff, 186 Nevada Smith, 64, 65 ff, 156, 158, 159, 160 Northwest Mounted Police, 144

There Was a Crooked Man, 14 transition theme, 74 ff, 164 ff, 187 True Grit, 92, 97 ff, 167, 168, 172, 173, 189 Union Pacific, 146, 151

47, 48, 140, 144, 145,

vengeance variation, 59 ff, 154 ff, 187 Vera Cruz, 32, 47, 54, 140, 145, 146, 147 Warshow, Robert, 6

217

INDEX

War Wagon, The, 112,119,121,167, 168, 172, 173, 189 Wells Fargo, 47 Watergate hearings, 180 Whispering Smith, 48, 145 Wild Bunch, The, 93, 98 ff, 168,169, 172

Winchester, 73, 154, 161 Yellow Sky, 47, 48, 52,145,146,147, 151