New American Gothic: Hardboiling the Coen Brothers

Among the numerous fringe benefits of my profession, I get to concoct harebrained schemes; but not only do I cook them up: I indulge them, make them realities…well, realities in my head. And the fun doesn’t end there, kids: before I think them through, I like to go and share them with people. We’ll call it stunt blabbing or daredevil gum-flapping.

The primary victim of my struggle to delineate between reality and fantasy happens to be my department chair.  She’ll be sitting in her office at a desk over-flowing with work wearing either a look of deep concentration or “where the hell do I even begin,” and all of a sudden I’ll pop my head into her open door: “Hey, Karen! I’ve got an idea!” I have to admit, I get a kick out of her jumping about two feet out of her chair. I mean, if she didn’t want to be interrupted by me, she shouldn’t have left her door open, right?  I’ve noticed that she’s given up coffee since hiring me.

That was a few years back and by now she’s figured out how to better deal with me.  Rather than rationally explain to me why I can’t teach Beowulf in Old English or take a class on a field trip to Seattle to reenact the WTO protests, she merely waits for me to finish, after which she calmly distracts me back to world of reality. “Proctor, have you given that 101 class their grammar diagnostic yet?” So, the other day, instead of even seeming to notice that I’d just proposed teaching Ulysses in my freshman composition course, she asks me if I have a DVD copy of The Source, a biopic about the Beat Poets starring Dennis Hopper, Johnny Depp, and John Turturro.

“Never heard of him,” she says.

“Who? Kerouac?!”

“No! That last one…Turtle.”

“Oh, Turturro?  He’s been in lots of stuff.  He was the racist son in Do the Right Thing.” She’s starting to put a face to the name.  “He was in Miller’s Crossing.”  I’m losing her.  “He was the Jesus in The Big Lebowski.” Nothing. “He’s been in a bunch of Coen Brothers’ films!” Eyeroll.

“Ooohhhh, the Cooowwwen Brothers. It’s a generational thing.  You young people and your Coen Brothers.” Huh? The Coen Brothers are “a generational thing”?  At first, the idea struck me as odd, but the more I thought about it, the more is seemed downright preposterous. So, I did some research, and, turns out, the Brothers’ last three films—in a row!—have been nominated for the Academy Award^® for Best Picture, and No Country For Old Men won the award (for which the Brothers also won Best Director).  One of the three—A Serious Man—received no marketing and featured no star power, yet is still a truly great film. A fourth—the absolutely unforgettable Fargo—was nominated for the award in the 90s. In addition, some of their best work has received no recognition from the Academy. [continued after the break: click "read more"]

For starters, if you haven’t seen Miller’s Crossing or The Hudsucker Proxy, you should. Now. Seriously. Get up out of your chair and go rent or illegally download them immediately (that's a joke). 

In Miller’s Crossing, the Brothers revisit Dashielle Hammet’s Red Harvest just as Sergio Leone did in A Fistful of Dollars and Kurosawa did with Yojimbo.  But this time, it’s not only riveting: it’s funny.  At a key moment in the film, a group of rival gangsters march our protagonist, Tom Regan (Gabriel Byrne), deep into the woods at gunpoint where Regan must show them the body of Bernie Bernbaum (Turturro).  Now, we all know that Regan didn’t kill Bernbaum as ordered, so we anxiously anticipate that Regan’s body will replace the vacancy in the woods.  Yet, almost magically, at the climax of the scene, just as the goon Eddie Dane is about to shoot Regan, the troop stumbles upon an unrecognizable, decomposed corpse dressed in the gangland garb of the era....

Of course, any hardboiled suspense in a Coen Brothers’ film must be cut with their truly unique brand of humor.  In The Hudsucker Proxy , a farce set in the 1950s, a seemingly naïve mailroom clerk, Norville Barnes (Tim Robbins), repeatedly attempts to climb the corporate ladder by sharing a drawing of his invention to puzzled co-workers. You see, it’s just a drawing of a circle. In response to their puzzled looks, he attempts to clarify with, “You know, for kids!” Ironically, Barnes is promoted—all the way to the top—but only in an underhanded attempt by one of the corporate bigwigs (played by Paul Newman in his final substantial role) to devalue the company’s stock. Only at the end do we realize that Barnes is the inventor of the hula-hoop, and the innovation undermines the corruption at the top of the corporate ladder.  It’s certainly a special brand of humor that relies on the surprise that the sucker to which the title alludes was actually just a misunderstood, eccentric genius all along…. 

Is this your homework, Larry?

In addition to these six titles, The Big Lebowski is now a full-fledged cult classic. Men, if you find yourself at a holiday party with a bunch of strangers, just walk up to a group of men, put on a German accent a la Sprockets, and say, “Vare iz da munny, Lebowski? Ve are NIHILISTS! Ve believes in NUSSING! NUSSING, Lebowski!  You vunt us to cut off your JOHNSON?!”  Okay. Okay.  Don’t do that.  People will turn away from you twirling their index fingers at their temple, but sharing lines from Lebowski has become a universal rite of passage in male bonding.  Lawyers, bartenders, and English professors alike, lines from the film like “Is this your homework, Larry?” or “The Chinamen’s not the issue!” or “Do you have to cuss so much, Dude?” or “They fucking pissed on your fucking rug!” elicit a pseudo-Pavolvian response of salivating approval. And, yes, In n’ Out^® has really good burgers….

Dad always chose the family viewing.

At this point, I have cited seven great films, and I have yet to mention my favorite Coen Brothers film of them all, the very first one I ever saw: Raising Arizona. On a weekend night in what must have been 1988 or ‘89, my family headed to the video store, Movies to Go, a smallish chain of rental shops that would soon be bought out by Blockbuster^®.  That’s what we did on the weekends, and for a number of weeks in a row my mother, my little brother, and I had strolled past a cover that caught my attention: it had some hicks laying out in lawn chairs on it and, oddly enough, one of them was a baby with sunglasses on.  At the age of 13, I was quite the film critic: I was certain it was stupid movie. By this time, my adolescent sense of aesthetics had cultivated a taste for action films, preferable one that featured aliens and the line “The Sarge is dead, man!”

Now if I wanted to get something I liked, it was always best to go to the video without my father.  Nowadays, I spend a lot of time watching movies that my daughter wants to watch. Such was not my father’s approach to family entertainment: dad always got his way. I became a baseball fan, frankly, because I had no choice: my father wasn’t watching fucking cartoons—he was watching the fucking Cardinal game dammit!  So thanks to the old man, by the age of eleven I had seen such family-friendly classics as The Godfather Part II, Once upon a Time in America, Body Double, and A Clockwork Orange. (Note to self: make appt. w/ therapist).  So, when my father selected the movie with the hicks in the lawn chairs, I performed all the eye-rolling and groaning mandated by pubescence, but I knew that I was going to have to settle for that stupid movie about the baby wearing the sunglasses. What followed must characterize many first exposures to the Coen Brothers’ imaginative universe….

Hi hankerin' for Ed.

In as zany a premise as I can conjure, a bungling convenience store robber named H.I. “Hi” McDunnough (Nicolas Cage) cultivates a romance with a police officer (Holly Hunter) named Ed—short for Edwina, of course—during a series of bookings.  Shortly after their marriage, they learn that Ed is “barren,” and they cannot adopt due to Hi’s checkered past.  As Hi explains in the film’s epic exposition, “Biology and the prejudices of others conspired to keep us childless.”  Fortuitously, the wife of a local unfinished furniture magnate named Nathan Arizona—he guarantees his deals with the catchphrase “…or my name ain’t Nathan Arizona!”—has given birth to quintuplets.  So, Hi and Ed decide that they are justified in kidnapping one of the Arizona children to raise as their own.

Of course, the film is funny.  ALL Coen Brothers’ film are funny (even No Country to a degree) and Raising Arizona is among the funniest. During the police investigation of the kidnapping, the detectives ask Mr. Arizona what the baby was wearing.  Incredulous, Arizona shouts, “What was he wearing?!  He was wearing his damn jammies! They had Yodas and shit on ‘em!” 

And the yucks come fast and furious throughout the film. When Hi finally cracks under the pressure of family life and decides to knock over a convenience store (a rather strange addiction indeed), he grabs a package of diapers, pulls panty hose over his face, and approaches the cashier brandishing a gun: “I’ll be takin’ these here Huggies and whatever cash you got.”  Of course, Ed doesn’t approve and refuses to play getaway driver. “Hurry up! I’m in Dutch with the wife.” So, Hi decides to hijack a driver on the road, who calmly asks, “Son, do you know you have a panty on your head?”

Yet, beyond mere entertainment, Raising Arizona represents a complex exploration of desire and morality in an unjust society. Hi’s real dilemma lies in his inner conflict: on the one hand, he thirsts for the significance, meaning, and depth of family bonds, while on the other he cannot resist the allure of outlaw adventure.  What man cannot identify with that inner conflict? Does this conflict not embody the very choice between single and married life? Between youth and middle age? 

As an attempt to have it both ways, the kidnapping of Nathan Jr. unleashes dual forces of karmic retribution. First, Hi’s past comes a-calling in the form of the Snoats brothers (John Goodman and William Forsyth), whose escape from prison is rendered as a birth from the primordial ooze of the penitentiary sewage system.  As a more abstract form of Greek fate, the bounty hunter Leonard Smalls first appears to Hi in a dream on the very night of the kidnapping.  During the climactic battle between Hi and Smalls, Hi pulls aside Smalls’ vest to reveal a Woody Woodpecker tattoo that matches his own biceps tattoo.  When Hi inadvertently destroys Smalls, who was sold on the black market as a child, McDunnough whispers a surprisingly earnest apology in the moment before the explosion. As such, the bounty hunter becomes Hi’s doppelganger, his uncanny double, the very embodiment of both his crime and his sense of guilt, the simultaneous irrationality of his childish id and the long arm of the tyrannical law.

After all, throughout the film, a perpetually puzzled McDunnough fails to rectify the antagonism between his attempts at self-efficacy with any authority in his society.  While “they say” that “that sumbitch Reagan…is a good man,” Hi can only grope for an explanation: “Maybe his advisors are confused.”  As Hi ponders a justice system is supposed to rehabilitate criminals, his experiences with the revolving door of prison lead him to imply that incarceration is an unusually cruel form of revenge against the criminal. At his final parole hearing, one of the board members warns Hi not to just tell them what they want to hear.

“No, sir,” Hi says.

“’Cause we just want to hear the truth.”

“Well, then I guess I am telling you what you want to hear.”

“Boy, didn’t we just tell you not to do that?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Well, okay then,” concludes the board member, echoing the meaningless refrain of authority in the film. And, of course, Nathan Arizona—the man conflated with the state—cannot live up to his advertising: his real name is in fact NOT Nathan Arizona, but Nathan Huffheinz. “Would you buy furniture from a store named Unpainted Huffheinz?!” Or as Hi’s foreman says, “It’s a crazy world.” To which Hi replies, “Someone oughta sell tickets.”

Though the film was produced on a modest budget of 5 million dollars—it was only the Brothers’ second film—the Brothers spent wisely and the film is notable for its technical mastery. In addition to Cage and Hunt, the Brothers exhibited a keen eye for inexpensive talent and recruited the likes of Goodman, Forsyth, Frances McDormand, and M. Emmet Walsh before any was well-known.  Hi’s showdowns with the Snoats Brothers and Leonard Smalls (Randall Cobb) are unforgettable battles, and the chase scene that begins in the convenience store forms a one-of-a-kind sequence.  In his attempts to escape the consequences of his criminal relapse, Hi travels by vehicle and foot through streets, track homes, backyards, alleys, and a grocery store, attracting police, gun-toting store clerks, and stray dogs along the way. In addition to the epic and lengthy exposition (among the most masterful I’ve seen), the film boasts creative and expressive editing that utilizing matches on action to seamlessly transport us in time and space, threading the film together in a grand unity. Finally, the Carter Burwell soundtrack is more than notable. After viewing the film, I walk around the house hollering Burwell’s orchestration of yodeling and banjos for the next few days.  I’m sure the neighbors love the film as much as I do….

Seriously, Proctor?

Now, to be clear, I am not making the argument that Raising Arizona is the Brothers' best film: I am merely explaining why it is my favorite Coen Brothers film, and any fan could make a legitimate explanation for any of the films alluded to in this piece. Still, I’m going to conclude with an admittedly provocative, even grandiose statement: among Western filmmakers, no one has accomplished more than the Coen Brothers (with the possible exception of Alfred Hitchcock, who, incidentally, never won Best Director).  How many great films has Francis Ford Coppola made?  Or Robert Altman? Or Oliver Stone? Or even Stanley Kubrick or Martin Scorsese or Woody Allen?  Think about it. I would add The Man Who Wasn’t There, Barton Fink and Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou? to the Brothers’ total.  Am I missing any? That makes eleven strong films for the Brothers. We should also consider that Hitchcock made films during the prolificacy of the studio era.  I would offer the same defense to those of you who would counter with Frank Capra or Elia Kazan or John Huston.  And I love the films of William Wyler, King Vidor, and Billy Wilder as well, but film production was a much simpler venture during the classical Hollywood era. And, most importantly, the Coen Brothers aren’t even finished yet; in fact, if their last three films are any guide, they are just getting started. And as Jews from the upper Midwest, the Brothers’ make films that appeal to viewers from heartland and coasts alike.  Their movies are entertaining on the most superficial level but also deeply concerned with questions of culture, mythos, and metaphysics, placing them among the most important American artists working in our time.

That’s it! On Monday, the last week of the Fall term begins, and we’re all up to our eyeballs in work, especially the department chair.  But, who cares? Someone needs to do something about this!  I think I’ll pop in and propose a new Film as Lit course—The Hardboiled Genius of the Coen Brothers.  I imagine that after settling back into her office chair, Karen’ll shake her finger at me and shout, “Proctor! Have you given that 101 class its exit exam yet?!”

“No, Karen.  Sorry.  We still have to finish My Own Private Idaho and write up the timed essay.”

“Who’s in that?”

“Keanu Reeves and Flea.”

“You're showing your students films starring insects now?”

“You don’t know the Chili Peppers?” Blank stare. “Give it away now?” Nothing.

“Is this some Gen X thing?” Huh? The Chili Peppers are “a Gen X thing”?  At first, the idea struck me as odd, but the more I thought about it, the more is seemed downright preposterous….