George Floyd and the Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
(in the wake of the George Floyd killing, May 2020)
Aside of that decent little technical discussion that followed, I blew it last week. That was a pretty lame post - although not untrue - about work capacity. After chiming in on the COVID crisis, I wanted to come up with something about the George Floyd murder as cities across the country exploded into protests, but I couldn’t figure out how to do so on such short notice.
I did rationalize that dull post, thinking, ‘If I take it upon myself to comment on everything, I’m going to mark myself as the liberal opposition to the consensus around here.’ Still, I wanted to do it; I just couldn’t figure out how, which bugged me Friday after posting, lifting, and driving my kid to the second of three rallies she’s attended.
I wasn’t going to express anything more eloquent than what was already being said, I knew, and I’d much rather reach for some kind of inspiration from my usual cast of characters: the 1970’s Steelers hurling opponents around the field, the SAS greasing terrorists, or any number of other studs who convey a sense of hard earned greatness.
Late in the afternoon, it hit me that somebody had already done this. I should have remembered: in moments of uncertainty, find an English major. They’ll remind you that folks have been through this kind of situation before - and somebody wrote everything down. This extends to the great director John Ford, whose classic western THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE assembled Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, Lee Marvin, and Woody Strode, as Alpha a pack of Dogs that had ever stepped in front of a camera. It’s a parable on the formation of America, a process in which Black Lives Mattered significantly.
You’d recognize Woody Strode, even if the name doesn’t ring a bell. He’s the long, tall Ethiopian gladiator in SPARTACUS who has to fight Kirk Douglas’ hero. He wins, but rather than kill Spartacus, he hurls his trident at the balcony full of Roman dignitaries, inciting the gladiators to rebellion. Strode was a world class decathlete, a professional wrestler, and played football for UCLA and eventually the LA Rams. He was well known to John Ford, who had already cast him as the lead in SERGEANT RUTLEDGE, a surprisingly progressive drama about a black cavalry sergeant wrongly accused of rape and murder. The studio wanted Sidney Poitier or Harry Belafonte for the part, but Ford stuck up for Strode, knowing that unlike the other two, he was hard enough to pull off the part of a rugged warrior.
John Ford knew his business, having made dozens of films through the silent era and the first talkies. As early as 1932, he was a commercial and artistic success, in Academy Award contention, and his four Best Director awards remains a record. Along with THE GRAPES OF WRATH, STAGECOACH, and THE SEARCHERS, THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE usually appears in the first lines of biographies that label him as one of the most important directors of all time. It’s being the Master Storyteller, the Alpha of All Dogs, that made him man enough to gather the likes of Stewart, Wayne, Marvin, and Strode, along with Strother Martin, with his operatic cackle, and Lee Van Cleef, Marvin’s other henchman, and dozens of other prominent character actors, into a circle and dictate, ‘This is how this scene is going to go.’
Lee Marvin, all six-foot-four inches of raw boned World War Two Marine (and whose grave I once made a point of finding at Arlington) is ruthless as Liberty Valance, a sadistic outlaw in his own right and later a hired gun for the cattlemen who want to keep the territory an ungoverned open range. The important thing about him is his name. A valance is a shade on a window, intended to block some or all light. Liberty Valance, therefore, is one who obstructs freedom.
‘Lawyer, huh?’ he snarls at a helpless Jimmy Stewart, newly arrived in the territory of Shinbone and who intervenes when Marvin menaces a woman during a stagecoach robbery. ‘Well, I’ll teach you law - Western Law!’ at which he horsewhips Stewart nearly to death.
This is the theme of the film, that the rule of law, not brutality, will transform the wilderness into civilized society. After being nursed back to health, the young lawyer sets up his practice in Shinbone, which quickly leads to more trouble with Valance.
By this point, we’ve already met Pompey, Woody Strode’s conscientious ranch hand working for John Wayne. His first compelling moment comes in a confrontation with Valance and his henchmen.
To earn his room and board, the young lawyer takes on the very nontraditional - and nothing is accidental in a Ford film - jobs of washing dishes and donning an apron to serve meals at the local eatery. Valance and his men burst in on a busy Saturday night, roust a few cowboys from a table, and help themselves to their steaks. Soon, they’re very amused to run into the lawyer once more - ‘Lookee at the new waitress!’ - and Valance trips Stewart, sending him and a tray full of dishes crashing to the ground.
This brings John Wayne to his feet, squaring up with Valance. That was his dinner that went all over the floor; ‘You pick it up,’ Wayne demands.
Valance’s henchmen are on their feet. ‘It’s three against one,’ Valance says.
Wayne motions toward a spot beyond Valance. ‘My boy, Pompey . . . kitchen door.’
Marvin turns and sees Strode with the heavy artillery, a rifle in the crook of his arm, pointed right at him. Wisely, he backs down. ‘The show’s over for now.’
‘My BOY, Pompey?’ Even in 1962, when the film was made, that was blatantly racist and patronizing - which is precisely John Ford’s point. Pompey’s just proven himself a good man to have in a tight spot, far better than anyone else in town, especially the marshal, yet he continues to suffer injustices. When a meeting is held to vote on statehood, Pompey must remain outside. When he walks into a bar looking for Wayne, the bartender won’t serve him.
Other dynamics in the formation of America are in play. Stewart’s young lawyer is also the teacher in Shinbone’s one room schoolhouse, where the lesson is civics. Stewart addresses the class in a shot that’s almost enough to make one weep: ‘The law of the land states that the governing power rests with the electorate. Now, that means YOU, the people,’ he says as we look over his shoulder at a truly unlikely bunch: Pompey, a bunch of Mexican kids, and Swedish immigrants of various ages and levels of bewilderment.
At one point Pompey struggles with reciting the beginning to the Declaration of Independence. ‘We hold these truths to be self evident, that . . . ‘
‘All men are created equal,’ Stewart fills in.
‘I just plum forgot it,’ Pompey says.
‘That’s all right. A lot of people forget that part.’
A theme emerges as the paths of Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne’s characters diverge. The workings of democracy and the use of violence are very separate things, yet they must maintain a relationship.
The young lawyer knows he’s on a collision course with Valance. He finds himself at Wayne’s ranch to train in handling a gun, but he’s beyond inept. ‘Go put these paint cans on those fence posts,’ Wayne instructs, and as Stewart places the last one, Wayne blasts all three. The last one, just above Stewart’s head, explodes in a shower of paint which wrecks Stewart’s suit.
Wayne roars with laughter. ‘I hate tricks, Pilgrim, but that’s what you’re up against with Valance.’
Skinny little Jimmy Stewart, his teeth bared, stalks back to Wayne and lets fly a haymaker with all his might, knocking Wayne flat on his arse. Wayne is too astonished by Stewart’s fury to react any further. Ford thereby establishes a hierarchy: the military shall answer to civilian control.
Their roles are put to the test in the final confrontation with Valance - a story to be told twice, the way John Ford did it. Valance has attacked the newspaper editor, which draws Stewart into a nighttime showdown in the center of town. Stewart is clearly out of his depth; Valance toys with him, shattering a flowerpot beside his head - in similar fashion to the paint can earlier - wounding Stewart in the forearm to knock his gun away, and shooting at the ground to make him jump. Impossibly, Stewart reaches for the gun with his other hand - in even more uncoordinated fashion - grabs it, and manages to kill Valance in an exchange of fire.
THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE is a story about stories and hidden truths, which is the key to its Black Lives Matter message. Jimmy Stewart’s character cannot live with the fact that he’s killed a man. Shinbone’s residents are clamoring for him to be their delegate in Washington in the quest for statehood, but he’s on the verge of skipping town and heading back to where he came from.
John Wayne has to set him straight. ‘You didn’t kill Liberty Valance,’ he informs him. ‘Think back, Pilgrim.’ As Wayne tells his tale, Ford takes us to a different angle on that fateful night. Wayne and Pompey step out of the darkness of an alley as Stewart struggles awkwardly with the gun in his left hand.
‘Pompey,’ Wayne whispers. Pompey tosses him the rifle. As Stewart and Marvin raise their pistols, Wayne brings up the rifle, and they all fire in the same instant. Clearly, it’s the rifle that cuts Valance down, who - come to think of it - does fly back surprisingly hard and drop very dead when we first think Stewart shot him.
Then follows one of the most powerful shots in the entire film: Wayne chucks the rifle back to Strode, and they exit, crossing as silhouettes, all business, their grim work done, in front of the camera. (In CAPTAIN PHILLIPS, the way the Navy SEAL snipers saunter off after killing the pirates is an homage - probably one of many - to this shot.)
In Democracy’s greatest moment of peril, the military is there to handle the situation, goes the parable - with yet another solid assist from the black dude. That’s history we cannot ignore, Ford is telling us. Black lives mattered more to our common good than we might realize.
If we’re not going to revert to the level of Liberty Valance or his henchmen, or if we’re going to believe in the ideals Stewart shares in that one room schoolhouse, then they still matter.
