Sergio Leone, Clint Eastwood, and the Spaghetti Western

When Homer wrote the Odyssey and the Iliad, he was inadvertently contributing to the vast canonical mythos of the Greeks. When the Vikings passed on the oratory tales of Thor and his mighty Mjolnir, they were creating a Norse mythology. When J.R.R. Tolkien sat down to pen the epic The Lord of the Rings, he was deliberately making an earnest attempt at creating a mythology for England.

When an Italian director named Sergio Leone undertook the filming of a grandiose American Western film saga, he was unknowingly creating the key characters, and stories, of the American Western mythos. While John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, and Kirk Douglas, among myriad other American actors, had long been reinacting the trials and tribulations of the Old West, and its mythic Frontier, no figure remains the keystone of the Western like Clint Eastwood and his Man With No Name trilogy.

Throughout the sixties, Leone directed four “Spaghetti Westerns” — so called to distinguish them from the very different U.S.-produced Westerns, which were less gritty, and also less…interesting, arguably. They lacked the humanity and inventiveness of Leone’s breakthrough films. The first, A Fistful of Dollars (1964), is a lackluster cinematic achievement, overall, but properly introduced the Man With No Name character — and turned Clint Eastwood into an international superstar. The first sequel, For a Few Dollars More (1965), was a far more successful film in terms of money made, storyline, and cinematic artistry. The gunfights were also slightly more interesting, making the mythical American Bounty Hunter seem far more larger-than-life. The third film in the trilogy, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966), is nothing short of a cinematic masterpiece, the masterwork of Leone’s career, and quite possibly the greatest film of all time.

Utilizing revolutionary cinematic techniques, wide panoramic shots akin to fine art, startlingly gritty close-ups, Ennio Morricone’s brilliant, guitar- and whistle-tinged score, and actors of the highest caliber, Sergio Leone crafted a film that I believe rivals the Mona Lisa in the realm of art.

Eastwood — The Good, Lee Van Cleef — The Bad, and Eli Wallach — The Ugly — give the best performances of their careers (okay, except for perhaps Gran Torino, but I could argue with myself for days about that), painting a vision of infantile America that rivals the poetic, epical nature of even LOTR or Beowulf. Seriously.

The fourth Leone Spaghetti Western, Once Upon a Time in the West, was a fairly critically acclaimed film, but began the downward trend of the perceived quality of Leone’s work in the genre. It features Henry Fonda in probably the most sinister, villainous role of his career, and replaces Clint Eastwood — and what a mistake this was, I’d argue — with Charles Bronson playing the new, less interesting Man With No Name. I’m not sure what Leone canon, if there is such a school of thought, claims about the character; it is my belief, however, that Bronson’s character is an entirely different individual, as he is seen playing a harmonica throughout the film as his sign of 1) someone’s going to die, and soon, and 2) he’s a badass, and don’t you forget it. Eastwood’s No-Name character used a cigar for this same purpose.

Regardless of the few merits it does lack, it’s still an outstanding film and probably better than at least the first of the Eastwood/Leone trilogy. Following Once Upon a Time in the West, Leone went on to make Duck, You Sucker! – a.k.a. A Fistful of Dynamite — which was a veritable failure in the scope of his presitigious, well-deserved career. It’s no wonder that Eastwood chose to discontinue his involvement with the Spaghetti Western genre at this point and begin his own directing career.

Following his directorial debut, Play Misty for Me (1971), he starred in John Sturges’ Joe Kidd (1972), a fairly respectable film, and then went on to direct his first Western, in which he also starred. High Plains Drifter (1973) marks a point in the American Western genre that I find to be pivotal.

Aside from the general good writing, acting, and frontier-based themes that are the keys of a good Western, High Plains Drifter introduced the world to the greater possibilities of the genre. As a writer myself, I see endless opportunities to build upon and diversify a genre that has been so rigid and unchanged for about a century of cinematic history. Louis L’Amour’s novels, I admit, I’m not really familiar with, but I have a very solid suspicion that his works don’t exactly break new ground. They likely rehash the same tired tropes again and again. I see a future for the genre that might mix the Western tale with steampunk, fantasy (well, okay, Stephen King got that one pretty much taken care of), or even horror. The possibilities are limitless. I won’t throw my ideas away just yet, though.

In Drifter, Eastwood’s character “The Stranger” is in fact a ghost — a spectral reincarnation of a man who was unjustly tortured and killed by a gang of lawless, ruthless bandits. It is a heartfelt, action-packed, and poetic romance about one spirit’s quest for vengeance and, in light of the mythic nature of the genre, resultant peace.

The film isn’t perfect, as it perpetuates the ancient sexist idea that yes means no, and women enjoy being raped — hell, they might even love you afterwords. A dangerous idea, but I’m sure that Eastwood would be the first to say that 1) they probably were wrong to include that element in the film, 2) it’s historically accurate, so get off my back, and 3) it’s not like Lord Eastwood, God of the Film World actually agrees with that sort of nonsense. It’s fiction, just like everything else.

Its strongest points, like so many Westerns, is its strong sense of storytelling, and its the ability to satisfy certain Freudian longings, like the revolver. The phallic symbol of the gun, most prominently the revolver pistol, is a recurring theme that is the silent centerpiece of all Western literature, art, and cinema. Drifter satisfies the human love — an unconscious one, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t there — of violence. Specifically good, old-fashioned gunfights. Why do you think The Matrix (2000) was such a hit? Sure, it had all the sexy cyberpunk trimmings, anime tropes, and leathery goodness you could shake a stick at — in slow motion, in fact — but it was all that fun violence that made it a hit. And, just maybe, the philosophical underpinnings. But don’t you think those are a part of the Western genre’s appeal as well?

Red Dead Redemption

So why tell you all this? No one cares about Westerns anymore, right? Well, no, that’s not really accurate. In fact, the Western genre is alive and well. Case in point: the 2007 Christian Bale/Ben Foster/Russell Crowe remake of the classic film 3:10 to Yuma, the just-released-in-theaters Jonah Hex (2010), starring Josh Brolin, John Malkovich, and Megan Fox; and last, but not least, the Xbox 360/PS3 video game Red Dead Redemption (2010), the sequel to the original Xbox hit Red Dead Revolver from Rockstar Games’ San Diego division.

The game is a sure sign that video games are getting better all the time, in all aspects. While it lacks the sort of sophistication showcased by state-of-the-art games like Modern Warfare 2 or Splinter Cell: Conviction, it successfully uses the tried-and-true free-roam gameplay of the Grand Theft Auto series, namely GTA IV, from which this title gets it graphics engine and overall aesthetic.

The player takes control of gunslinger John Marsden, a man with a vendetta, a dark past, and a score to settle — and there’s always a score to be settled, isn’t there? In GTA and in Westerns? His wife and son, it is quickly learned, were killed as a result of some event in the player’s immediate past. Also, it is made known that John was once in a gang of criminals, with whom he now has a rather weighty beef. Revenge plot? Almost undoubtedly; I haven’t quite finished the game yet, and I’m not the type to spoil an ending.

In what is likely the absolute largest free-roam, fully rendered environment ever featured in a video game, players are able to plot destinations upon a detailed map of the region known as “New Austin,” and set about on a fairly loose quest that makes for a very interesting and entertaining storyline.

The usual Rockstar humor is there, but the writing in this particular title takes on a much more serious tone than, say, GTA: Vice City. The character is someone the player comes to care about, not some clown or mere digital puppet. This game has a story, and a grandiose, well-written one, at that. The amount of work that went into crafting the script alone is mind-boggling.

The world is one of beautiful scenery, rich characters, and exciting gameplay. The A.I. is both intelligent and difficult, and the controls are seamless. There is the occasional tiny glitch, such as the horse getting stuck in a grouping of rocks, but the gameplay physics couldn’t be more impressive. Riding a horse, aiming a rifle, and downing enemies sounds like a lot to juggle, but the game has been designed in such a way that it’s actually not that hard at all. In fact, it’s quite addicting.

Why is the genre so damn awesome, so endlessly appealing? Is it because I was raised in America? Is it because there’s some savage, subconscious appeal to the idea of lawlessness and so-called “social justice” amid a barren frontier civilization? I’d like to think its appeal runs deeper than mere saddles and bullets, but I can only speculate.

For me, it’s all about having a different flavor of myth, one rich, fresh, and relatable. An American Mythology. As art grows and regresses, Westerns always crop up in one place or another. I only hope that they’ll continue to evolve, as well.

Because art and literature are two of the only frontiers which shall forever remain eternal.