Clint Eastwood at 91

I was too young for the original run of RAWHIDE, but I can remember the impact of Clint Eastwood’s Man With No Name in the Sergio Leone trilogy released 1967-68 in America.  Eastwood, dispensing with niceties and amused/bemused by the transparent scheming of others, was a transgressive figure in an era where John Wayne’s unyielding patriarchy was still a predominant influence on mainstream Westerns.  In those days, black and white stills of Eastwood wearing his trademark poncho were turned into posters bought by antiestablishment youth.

And we know the rest of the story: Eastwood became a director in the early 70s, began courting film critic Respect with 1976’s THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES—and, as filmmaker, has a canon that mixes thoughtful classics (BIRD, WHITE HUNTER BLACK HEART, UNFORGIVEN, MYSTIC RIVER, LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA, the underrated CHANGELING, FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS) with simple reactionary shoutouts to his aging, first generation audience who want their political/social conservatism validated (HEARTBREAK RIDGE, GRAN TORINO, THE MULE, RICHARD JEWELL).  One hopes Clint’s latest in a subgenre of valedictory films, CRY MACHO, will be a try-following-this mic drop to an almost seven-decade career.  [UPDATE 9/20/2021: It isn’t.  Less reactionary, but also paced like drinking a glass of warm milk before bedtime.]