The Lawmen, The Cowboys, And The O.K. Corral

Some links before I get things started today. Norma has new passage at her blogs for Sam's Story and her memoir. PK wrote at her blog about the passing of Robin Williams and how to deal with depression.  And Whisk has something too tempting to pass up.

Today I'm doing a film review, the first of two reviews of films from the 90s dealing with the same people.

“Doc, you’re not a hypocrite. You just like to sound like one.” ~ Wyatt Earp

“And you must be Ringo. Look, darling, Johnny Ringo. The deadliest pistoleer since Wild Bill, they say. What do you think, darling? Should I hate him?” ~ Doc Holliday

“I’m a woman, I like men. If that means I’m not lady-like, then I guess I’m just not a lady. At least I’m honest.” ~ Josephine Marcus

“A man like Ringo has a great big hole, right in the middle of him. He can never kill enough, or steal enough, to fill it.” ~ Doc Holliday

“The cowboys are finished, you understand me? I see a red sash, I kill the man wearing it. So run, you cur! Tell all the other curs the law’s coming! You tell ‘em I’m coming! And hell’s coming with me, you hear? Hell’s coming with me!” ~ Wyatt Earp

Tombstone is the 1993 Western from director George Cosmatos, following the story of the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday in the dusty Arizona town in the 1880s, recounting the gunfight at the O.K. Corral and the aftermath of that incident. It was initially meant to be helmed by director Kevin Jarre and starring Kevin Costner, but creative differences ensued, Costner went off to make his own film bio of the western lawman, and Jarre was later removed from the project altogether. It is a sprawling action film that sets two opposing forces against each other, albeit with shades of gray in between. It’s tighter in scope than Costner’s bio, concerning itself with a more limited time frame, but touches some of the same territory as it goes along.

The film opens up with retired lawman Wyatt Earp (Kurt Russell) arriving in Arizona, meeting up with his brothers Virgil (Sam Elliott) and Morgan (Bill Paxton). All of them have women in their lives, all of them are looking forward to a quieter life and the financial opportunities that Tombstone seems to have for them. They also run into Wyatt’s old friend John “Doc” Holliday (Val Kilmer) and his significant other, Kate (Joanna Pacula). Doc has come to Arizona for the climate; he suffers from tuberculosis. Wyatt and his brothers quickly get themselves started, securing a stake in a local gambling hall. Tensions start to rise with a band of cowboys, led by Curly Bill Brocius (Powers Boothe), Ike Clanton (Stephen Lang), and Johnny Ringo (Michael Beihn), who we’ve already been introduced to earlier in the film. They’re a ruthless, vicious lot, for the most part, a band of psychotics who take pleasure in killing for the sake of killing. The one exception is Sherman McMaster (Michael Rooker), who seems troubled by the actions of his fellow cowboys.

Wyatt is occupied with his growing financial interests. His common law wife Mattie (Dana Wheeler-Nicholson) is spending her time getting addicted to laudanum. He doesn’t particularly get along with the county sheriff, John Behan (Jon Tenney), who’s more sympathetic to the cowboys. He’s drawn to an actress, Josie Marcus (Dana Delany) in town with an acting troupe for an extended stay. He has little interest in returning to the days of being a lawman, despite the growing unrest in the town, the urging of the mayor (Terry O’Quinn), and the unease of his brothers in standing by while cowboys ride around drunk and getting into trouble. Everything changes, however, with the killing of the town marshal by a drunken Curly Bill, and Wyatt and his brothers find themselves drawn back into the life they used to lead, and into a vendetta that will cost them dearly.

Though Jarre didn’t last as director, the story is drawn from his script, and there’s a whole lot in it. The film was plagued by various problems at the time during production. Jarre’s screenplay was too long, with too many subplots, and that was one of the reasons the studio removed him and brought in Cosmatos, who worked closely with Russell in the filmmaking process- it might well have been a ghost-directing job, as Russell had a lot of involvement in the film’s staging. It was filmed largely on location in Arizona, and the terrain is as beautiful as you’d expect of that area. The story does take liberties with the facts, mind you. There was another brother, James Earp, in Tombstone the entire time, though he didn’t take part in being a lawman. The youngest brother in the family, Warren, took part in what was referred to as the Earp Vendetta Ride. Neither of the brothers is mentioned in this film. Another participant in the real Ride is murdered during the film, contrary to the fact that the man himself lived for many years afterwards. And there’s a pair of shootings in the wake of the O.K. Corral taking place on a single night; in fact, the two shootings took place months apart.

The film does very much set two sides against each other in its story. The cowboys, for the most part, are sadistic, with only one of them crossing the line, renouncing them, and taking the side of the Earps as the story moves along. They are very much the villains, with nothing redemptive among the rest of them. The opposing side is more nuanced. Wyatt is more self-interested when the film starts out; he’s interested in getting rich and taking what he can from Tombstone and its surroundings and cashing out. It’s quite a capitalist viewpoint, though the real Earp did concern himself with having business interests. It takes him time to return to the idea of justice; he’s had his time as a lawman, but events force him back to old habits. He’s not altruistic as far as the community is concerned, but his mindset changes as things go along. Doc Holliday is another shade of gray for the story. He spends his life as a gambler, but he has killed people, seems to enjoy provoking people with a hair trigger temper, and we sense that the only reason he’s not in jail for murder is that he knows how to kill someone within the confines of the law. That doesn’t mean he’s not willing to break the law, such as when he and Kate commit a robbery on their way out of town early on when a card game goes awry. He might be acting on the side of the angels, mostly because he’s loyal to his friends, but he has a shaky foundation where ethics are concerned. 

The crew brings the old west to life in various ways; it helps tremendously that much of the filming was done on location. The clothing feels certainly drawn out of the era, both in the fashions of those who were seeing the town as a future emporium of culture and so dressed respectably, and in the dust-covered grime of cowboys who might not bathe for weeks on end. The buildings of Tombstone, particularly inside, have a gaudy, garish feel to them, like Las Vegas before it was Vegas. It’s the mark of a frontier mining town with no sense of its boundaries, and so feels like the place might have once felt about itself. By contrast, once we’re out in the countryside, for instance, on a ranch that turns up late in the film, it’s not that hard to imagine we’re stepping onto that ranch over a century ago. It feels like a working place. Lastly, the score by composer Bruce Broughton (Silverado) is epic, romantic, and harsh when it needs to be, brooding over the entire film.

A number of old veterans of the silver screen turned up along the line during the story. Harry Carey Jr. was an old hand of many a Western, including for John Ford. He appears in this film in one of his last roles as the ill fated Marshal White, playing the part much like the man himself might have been- a reasonable man who knows he needs more help to deal with the lawlessness of his town. Robert Mitchum was supposed to play the part of the ringleader of the Clanton and McLaury gang, but a riding accident left him out of the part, and rewriting was done to delegate his lines and leadership to Boothe’s character instead. He does turn up as the narrator at the beginning and end, however. Charlton Heston also turns up in a cameo, one of his final roles. He plays Henry Hooker, a rancher who gives refuge to Wyatt, Doc, and the other Vendetta Riders late in the film. While initially hesitant to get involved, he makes a promise to Wyatt that makes us think of him as a man of his word, a stark contrast to the mayhem of the cowboys.

The various members of the Clanton and McLaury gang are populated with a cast that includes Thomas Haden Church, John Corbett, and Tomas Arana, but three of them are the most developed. Powers Boothe (24, Sin City) plays Curly Bill as a vicious drunk, mean spirited and finding amusement in killing anyone who crosses his path. He’s a sociopath, and Boothe certainly plays him that way. Stephen Lang (Gettysburg) is a splendid character actor who’s played his share of villains down through the years. His take on Ike Clanton is similar to Curly Bill, but with some other nuances. He’s a drunkard with a hair trigger temper, looking like he hasn’t bathed in months. He’s also something of a loudmouth and a bully, but when really confronted with someone who’s willing to fight back, there’s a streak of cowardice in him. Ike is a thoroughly unpleasant character, so we as an audience aren’t all that unhappy, for instance, when he gets his face cut open by a boot spur. The third is Johnny Ringo, as played by Michael Beihn. As an actor, Beihn’s never really had the career that early roles might have pointed him to, but he has a good presence as the gunman. His Ringo keeps his anger and his sadistic side in more of a check than Curly Bill or Ike, but it’s there. He plays the role almost like a rattlesnake, coiled and tense, ready to strike. There’s a particular loathing in him for Doc Holliday; something that Doc remarks to Wyatt about him rings true- that Ringo’s trying to get revenge on life, for merely being born in the first place. 

Michael Rooker’s character McMaster has to shift his loyalties as the story goes along. He starts out as one of the cowboys, but we see his unease. The suggestion has been made that the real man might have been a spy for the railroads infiltrating the gang, and in fact he did switch sides to join Wyatt, and did take part in the Vendetta Ride. His reason for the decision does ring true; an attack on the Earp women is his point of saying “enough.” Dana Wheeler-Nicholson’s role is a challenge. She plays Mattie (at least until we last see her in the film) in a way that’s emotionally distant, seeking solace in drugs; she has to play the character in an unsympathetic light; the audience doesn’t mind Wyatt’s interest going elsewhere. Joanna Pacula plays Doc’s paramour Kate as his accomplice and partner, the two of them well suited for each other- the real life couple were probably a good deal more tempestuous. But we like her anyway- she’s loyal and just as ethically shifty as her lover. Dana Delany plays Josie as a liberated woman who knows what she wants. She’s smart, outspoken, likes the idea of adventure (and room service); She’s drawn to Wyatt as much as he’s drawn to her. Delany brings all these qualities across in her performance. And Delany has good chemistry with Russell.

Bill Paxton plays Morgan as the charmer the real one might have been. He looks up to his brothers, has followed in their footsteps, and rightfully remarks that he has to back his brother’s decision when an ethical dilemma presents itself. He’s affable in the role, a friendly sort of guy. Yet there are also quiet moments in the presence of unwelcome company when we see the awareness in his eyes; this is a man who can take care of himself in a fight. That’s even more expressive in Sam Elliott’s role as Virgil Earp, the older brother of the lot. Elliott is one of those few actors who I’ve always been convinced could tear a man in half if he wanted to. He brings a hard, gruff quality to Virgil, a man who sees lawlessness in his community and decides he can’t stand by and do nothing while it happens. He’s compelling in the role, but then Elliott is compelling in whatever he does.

Val Kilmer got a lot of praise for his role as Doc Holliday. It’s generally a rule that in films about Wyatt and Doc, the actor playing Doc gets the best lines. He plays the character like a Southern gentleman, but a thoroughly dangerous one. He seems to like poking and heckling people he dislikes, goading them into a fight. He also looks thoroughly sick, though not as gaunt as Dennis Quaid’s take on the character. He does get a good many of the laughs in the film, but at the same time, we’re seeing a man who knows he’s living on borrowed time, and has a justified dangerous reputation. Like Ringo, he too is a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike.

Russell has to take Wyatt through a process of change as the story goes along. When we first see him, he’s determined to put his past as a lawman behind him (though this doesn’t stop him from fearlessly staring down and throwing out a temperamental armed drunk played by Billy Bob Thornton from a saloon). He’s not looking for a fight, not looking to get involved in the law anymore, even argues with his brothers about their decisions to return to the life of the lawman again. Yet he’s drawn in again and again despite what he might want. When circumstance forces him back to the way of the gun, he’s forceful and decisive, utterly fearless in moving forward, giving the role a ruthless quality that the real Wyatt would understand. And as events accelerate and he’s driven by grief and rage, we understand his point of view, and we sympathize with him. We might count ourselves lucky that we’re not on this character’s bad side.

Tombstone is not the better of the two films in the 90s about the lawman and the world he inhabited, but it is an entertaining film in its own right. It follows two very different groups of people into an inevitable conflict. One is on the side of right, the other is a band of sociopaths. It features two leading characters who trust each other as friends, who understand that they can count on each other. It's a film I enjoy whenever I watch it. 

Even if it does ignore the complete existence of a pair of Earp brothers.

Six Feet Of The Devil And A Hundred Eighty Pounds Of Hell

"The Hatfield-McCoy War has broken out fresh in the newspapers. The Hatfields and McCoys, however, know nothing about it." ~ Logan County Banner, 1894

Last year I wrote a humorous blog on vendettas, specifically on the story of the Hatfields and McCoys. I thought I'd revisit that somewhat today, as the story of the Hatfields and McCoys has come back along as of late. A miniseries on the feud has aired recently, and a fresh book on the story has recently been published. I thought I'd take a look at both, review each in turn.

Hatfields & McCoys is the recent miniseries, headlined by Kevin Costner and Bill Paxton as the patriarchs of the two clans, telling the story of the vendetta from the end of the Civil War to its conclusion in 1891. The two start out as young men, and we follow them through to old age in the series, along with their families and the various people who played a part in the events of the vendetta.

Devil Anse (Kevin Costner) and Levicy Hatfield (Sarah Parish)

Sarah (Mare Winningham) and Randall McCoy (Bill Paxton)

Devil Anse Hatfield (Costner) and Randolph McCoy (Paxton) are both soldiers in the Confederate army until Hatfield abandons the field to go home to the borderlands of Kentucky and West Virginia, to his wife Levicy (Sarah Parish). McCoy comes home to his wife Sarah "Sally" McCoy (Mare Winningham) at war's end to a world changed, where his brother Harmon has been killed by Jim Vance (Tom Berenger), an uncle to Devil Anse. This is what most consider to be the beginning of the feud, an act of anger over Harmon McCoy having had served as a Union Soldier.

The years go on. While the Hatfields seem to prosper with timbering in the area, Randall McCoy and his relations fall behind, and the unresolved death of one of their own festers in the McCoys. The theft of a pig and subsequent trial of a Hatfield more than a decade later creates more tensions between the families. The relationship of two of the children, Johnse Hatfield (Matt Barr) and Roseanna McCoy (Lindsay Pulsipher) makes things worse. Where Randall tries to use the law to air his grievances, Devil Anse is more likely to take the law into his own hands. On both sides, the tensions deepen, fighting breaks out, lives are broken, and people are killed as revenge becomes absolute. By the end of the feud, two families have been hit hard, the story has made national headlines, and two hardened enemies find themselves at a crossroads.

The Hatfields

The McCoys

The miniseries does justice to the story, particularly with respect to what I've later read about the feud. It tries to be historically accurate, much more so than previous film or television versions of the story, which veered wildly off the rail. There are a few glitches- the historical record, for instance, is uncertain as to if Randall McCoy even fought in the Confederate Army, Costner and Paxton are roughly around the same age and in reality, Randall was older than Devil Anse, Roseanna McCoy was a blonde- but these are relatively minor. The filmmakers wanted to keep as close to the original narrative of history where possible, and the production values really pay attention to the finer details, in costuming, music, sets. While the filming itself was done in eastern Europe, the setting in the film ends up feeling very much like a place in the backwoods of America, like the Kentucky and West Virginia borderland must have been like.

The pacing of the story works well. It slowly builds up the tensions, conveying the events as they go along, bringing the feud to a boil, to the point where it finally explodes. We, the audience, can believe the animosity that we've seen growing in these characters. The casting, for the most part, works well. The exception would have to be Matt Barr and Lindsay Pulsipher, neither of whom have much in the way of gravitas for the parts. There are some who look at the story of these two as a Romeo and Juliet sort of story; I didn't sense that. To begin, there were already a number of Hatfields and McCoys marrying. And it felt more like Johnse Hatfield was an irresponsible, womanizing drunkard who threw away what might have been a good thing just by being himself. Barr doesn't bring much weight to the role, and seems more like he's channeling Ryan Gosling (a bad thing, since in my opinion, Gosling sleepwalks his way through every role he takes). Pulsipher as Roseanna is more or less the tragic character, doomed to a bad end, but she just doesn't feel like we should take her seriously.

Roseanna McCoy (Lindsay Pulsipher)

Johnse Hatfield (Matt Barr)

Okay, that's the bad casting choices out of the way. Now the good, and there are a number of standout performances. Boyd Holbrook plays Cap Hatfield, another of Devil Anse's sons, and he gives the part a vindictive, ruthless streak, much like the original man might well have possessed. Jim Vance is the sort of sadistic, vicious pitbull that history seems to suggest he is, and Berenger perfectly plays those qualities. Powers Boothe, playing "Wall" Hatfield, an elder brother, gives the role a certain dignity and strength throughout. He's the voice of reason, reluctant to get involved in the feud, though the feud leads him to a bad end anyway. Andrew Howard plays a man named Bad Frank Phillips, a gun for hire brought in by the McCoys to go after the Hatfields, and though he's older than the actual man himself was, he plays the role with a vicious rattlesnake sort of quality, a thoroughly dangerous man.

Cap Hatfield (Boyd Holbrook)

Jim Vance (Tom Berenger)

Wall Hatfield (Powers Boothe)

Frank Phillps (Andrew Howard)

There are several women in the cast who stand out. Jena Malone, who's been acting since childhood, plays a McCoy cousin, Nancy, who gets involved with Johnse after the breakdown of the relationship with her cousin. She brings a conniving, manipulative quality to the role, effectively playing both sides against each other, though her loyalties remain to her family. Sarah Parish as Devil Anse's wife Levicy is a voice of reason, drowned out by violence, watching her family tear itself apart for the sake of retribution. And Mare Winningham plays Sarah McCoy, one of the more tragic characters of the story, who loses most of her family, and ends up broken emotionally and physically. She too watches her family implode from within, her husband becoming increasingly bitter, and the performance is haunting.

It's the two leads in the cast that make it come together. They carry the weight of the series, and they do not disappoint. Bill Paxton is one of those actors who just gets better with age. He plays McCoy's gradual decline from a reasonable man into bitter anger, finally into a state where he's shattered by all that has happened to him. Randall McCoy spent the rest of his life in complaint, never really getting over the feud, the anger still festering in him, and Paxton perfectly conveys that. He's a man whose eyes are very expressive, and two emotions that come across that way throughout are pain and the notion of being haunted. He moves from being a man who believes in God and the law to becoming a man who has lost all that matters to him in the end, leaving him unhinged, deeply bitter, and cynical. Not unlike the real McCoy, who by all accounts came apart after the feud.

Costner too is an actor who, given the right role, really can shine. He plays mean and cruel very well, and Devil Anse certainly qualifies. There's a ruthless, calculating streak to the character, a stubborn quality that's not willing to let go of an argument. He also feels plausible as the leader of a large extended family, though the man himself was not the eldest in the clan; Costner carries enough dramatic weight that the audience can believe people around him would follow him. I was reminded of my favourite Costner film Wyatt Earp, where he plays the lawman as the driving force of a family, similarly moved to wage a personal war against people he deems the enemy. In Wyatt and in Devil Anse, there's something of the same mean streak. There's a darkness that particularly comes out at times in this series, to the point where he's willing to take extreme action against a member of his own family he thinks may have betrayed him.

There's a moment, late in the series, when the two come face to face again. It's a confrontation that's not quite what it seems. Costner and Paxton spar with each other in that scene, which really comes across as a crossroads. It also brings into question the issue of mental stability, but it perfectly conveys just how deeply the loathing had cut into both men. It might well be the pivotal moment of the entire series.

The series leaves us with questions. Are there any of these people we should feel sympathetic about? Yes. The women are, for the most part, more sympathetic than the men, which I think transfers as well over to the real story. They watched as their families destroyed themselves, as their men went to war with each other, as stubbornness and hatred dominated their actions. And they paid dearly for it. The series sheds light on this chapter in American history, reminding us of just how badly anger can dominate, can get out of control, and how hard the consequences of that can be. And in the end, it's compelling and entertaining... and dark.

The writer Lisa Alther has recently released Blood Feud, a new look at the facts of the vendetta. Alther counts among her ancestors a McCoy family member, a forebear who refused to take part in the feuds. Alther, who comes from a background as a novelist, brings that quality to the narrative of history, laying out the story of the feud. She acknowledges a problem in telling the story straight off; the poorly kept records and contradictory accounts of the events in question from previous books make it difficult to determine at times what really happened. Earlier books were written by family members on both sides, collecting the accounts of their relations and told in such a way to deflect responsibility for crimes and to cast themselves in a positive light. The truth, she stresses, must lie in between, and through the book she often notes of an incident having more than one version, either in the drafts or the narrative itself. Another thing she stresses is that many of the people taking part in the fight weren't members of the families, but were tied to the clans by friendship or employment; indeed, there were more than a few Hatfields and McCoys who refused to take part in the vendetta.

Alther lays out the background of the families and the region first, exploring things like why vigilante justice might appeal to such people, to the family hierarchy of the day. In large extended families, for example, one might have cousins sharing the same name, since the habit of the time was to name a son after a father, or an uncle or brother. This is the case with Devil Anse, who shared his proper name William Anderson Hatfield with a cousin. The tendency of the time was to nickname children, often based on personality at some point; while the cousin ended up being referred to as Preacher Anse, and Devil Anse... obviously got it for other reasons. Alther gives several explanations for the nickname (as is the case of so much in the story, there are conflicting reasons); I rather prefer Randall McCoy's take on the name, that Devil Anse was "six feet of the Devil and a hundred eighty pounds of Hell."

Devil Anse Hatfield and Randall McCoy

The chronology of the feud is laid out in detail, the crimes, the killings, and the underlying factors driving hostilities. Where there are conflicting accounts of what actually happened, Alther points them out, using her skill as a novelist to keep the pacing of the narrative going. With the end of hostilities, she turns somewhat to discuss other items, putting the story into a greater context. Underlying cultural, physical, and social elements that might have played a role in the way the feud developed are explored. Other feuds in the region- some of which lasted longer and resulted in much higher death tolls- are detailed. And the aftermath and legacy of the feud itself, particularly in how it lingers in our collective memory in a way that other feuds have never achieved, are examined.

I cannot understate the value of Alther's background as a novelist in writing this book. It gives her the ability to breathe life into the story in a way that some historians might be lacking in (believe me, I've read more than enough historian's tomes that serve as a good cure for insomnia... Eric Hobsbawm, I'm looking at you). She has the right touch in keeping the reader's attention, and she brings balance to the story; she places the responsibility for the feud on both sides. She even brings a sense of humor to the table, which I obviously appreciate.

If you've found yourself curious about the real story after watching the miniseries, get hold of Blood Feud. You'll find yourself enlightened.