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Its success prompted a rush of revisionist 90s reckonings with Native American culture from white film-makers


Martin Scorsese’s rather magnificent Killers of the Flower Moon is two weeks away from cinemas, and its marketing campaign has been fascinating to observe. What was initially pitched as a Leonardo DiCaprio-starring period crime epic has been repositioned to emphasise its story of atrocities brought against the Osage Nation. The presence of Lily Gladstone, the film’s superb Indigenous star, has been elevated. It was recently announced that she’ll campaign for the best actress Oscar, not supporting, while Scorsese has admitted that the script was rewritten during filming to centre its Native American characters: “After a certain point, I realised I was making a movie about all the white guys,” he told Time magazine. No more.

Consider it the latest step in Hollywood’s evolution regarding the representation of Native Americans on screen, a century or so after Indigenous characters mainly served as target practice for white cowboys in dime-a-dozen westerns. One need only trace John Ford’s career to see how it gradually dawned on the industry that this might not be good enough. Whereas his 1939 white settler saga Drums Along the Mohawk (unavailable to stream in the UK) made a plainly villainous obstacle of Native American warriors, 1956’s more poetically conflicted The Searchers ascribed a human motivation to their violence, while his final film, 1964’s ravishingly shot Cheyenne Autumn, was an overt mea culpa on Ford’s part – a sympathetic reflection on colonial abuses, albeit one that still put white saviours front and centre.For several decades, that would remain the industry’s default compromise on the subject, from Arthur Penn’s sprawling, semi-parodic western Little Big Man (1970), tracing more than a century in the life of a white man (Dustin Hoffman) raised by the Cheyenne Nation, to the lively but rather naive action film Billy Jack (1971; Amazon), with its half-Navajo Vietnam vet hero and oddly violent plea for peace. Windwalker (1981), a stately, heroic portrait of a veteran Cheyenne warrior, commendably features mostly Cheyenne and Crow dialogue but bizarrely casts British actor Trevor Howard in the title role.

The apex of this movement, of course, remains Kevin Costner’s Oscar-sweeping smash Dances With Wolves (1990), about a civil war soldier integrating with a Lakota tribe. It doesn’t get spoken of that much these days (and strangely, isn’t streamable in the UK), in part because its well-meaning grasps at representation now look rather dated.Its success prompted a rush of revisionist 90s reckonings with Native American culture from white film-makers, including Michael Mann’s roaring The Last of the Mohicans, with Daniel Day-Lewis as adopted Mohican hero Hawkeye; Walter Hill’s underrated historical biopic Geronimo, which went further than most by actually casting the excellent Indigenous actor Wes Studi as the eponymous Apache leader; and Michael Apted’s intriguing neo-noir Thunderheart, with Val Kilmer as a part-Sioux FBI agent investigating reservation murders. South African director Jonathan Wacks had a Sundance hit with Powwow Highway (Amazon), a vibrant, good-humoured road movie about two Cheyenne men reconnecting with their heritage. Disney got in on the act with its politically romanticised but Indigenous-positive Pocahontas; a decade later, Terrence Malick told the young woman’s story with rather more visceral beauty, and a remarkable performance by Q’orianka Kilcher, in The New World.

Hollywood has, however, been slower to embrace stories directly from Native American film-makers – one reason why Smoke Signals – a wry, gentle character study by Cheyenne-Arapaho director Chris Eyre, in which two young men spar over differing conceptions of their “Indian” identity – was hailed as something of a phenomenon in 1998. Eyre went on to produce Imprint, a compelling drama about a Lakota lawyer (a fine Tonantzin Carmelo) evaluating herself as she works a local murder case. But few have broken out since: the recent, ribald sitcom Reservation Dogs (Disney+), from Taika Waititi and indie Native American film-maker Sterlin Harjo, has filled a glaring pop-culture gap.
Outside directors have recently brought a more empathic perspective to Native American subjects. Chloé Zhao’s Songs My Brothers Taught Me (Mubi) and The Rider brought an elegiac ache to their portraits of reservation life, while Kelly Reichardt’s wonderful Certain Women introduced us to Gladstone – and, in her queer rancher character, a modern view of Indigenous femininity. Old habits endure: Taylor Sheridan’s otherwise gripping Wind River (Amazon) once again centred the perspective of white authorities in a story of Native injustice, while I have mixed feelings about Bone Tomahawk, a vastly entertaining, rip-roaring western that rests provocatively on savage Native stereotypes. Still, it increasingly feels there’s no going backwards: Scorsese speaks for many.
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Clint Eastwood: They both have an adventure, It’s a new adventure

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Actor Clint Eastwood has worked with a variety of filmmakers during his years in the film industry. In his experience, there was one filmmaking habit he could barely tolerate from other directors.

It might have also showed Eastwood what not to do when he indulged in a career behind the camera.

Clint Eastwood once called out directors who did too many takes

Eastwood became interested in directing fairly early in his acting career. After getting his big break in the classic Western series Rawhide, he asked to direct a couple of episodes.

“Then, the production company reneged on their promise that I could do it,” Eastwood once told DGA.“They said that CBS didn’t want actors who were in the shows to be directing the shows. So I kind of dropped the idea for a while and then, after I’d been working with Sergio Leone on A Fistful of Dollars, observing the crews in Europe and getting a broader look at filmmaking around the world, I got interested again.”
Opportunity presented itself when Eastwood eventually directed his first feature Play Misty for Me.
“It was a great experience, and I had the bug after that,” Eastwood said.
It was perhaps because of his own time as a filmmaker that Eastwood understood the process behind other directors. At one point, Eastwood became very critical of directors who did multiple takes. So much so that he called into question their qualifications and expertise as filmmakers.
“Some of these new directors will shoot 30 takes of a scene just because they don’t know what they want. They wind up with thousands of feet [of film], then they cry for some some editor to come in and save their butts. If you can’t see It yourself, you shouldn’t be a director,” Eastwood once told The New York Times.
Clint Eastwood has been known for only doing a couple of takes
Eastwood seems to have maintained his philosophy for limited takes in his more mature years. Actors like Matt Damon have been pleasantly surprised by the veteran star’s efficiency as a filmmaker. The Bourne Identity star had even gotten chewed out by Eastwood for wanting to do more than one take in Invictus.
“We did the first take, it went pretty well, but Clint says, ‘Cut. Print. Check the gate.’ Which means we’re gonna move on,” Damon recalled on Hot Ones. “And I said, ‘Hey, boss, maybe you think we can get one more?’ And he just turned and he goes, ‘Why? You wanna waste everybody’s time?’ I was like, ‘Ok, we’re done. Alright good, let’s move on.’”
But Eastwood believed his own habit for working quickly in films came down to his work on the small screen.
“I came up through television, and in television you had to move fast. The important thing, of course, is what comes out on the screen. I like to move fast only because I think it works well for the actors and the crew to feel like we’re progressing forward,” he said.
However, Eastwood cautioned that his reputation as a quick director could easily backfire.
“You don’t want to do Plan 9 from Outer Space, where the gravestones fall over and you say, ‘I can’t do another take. We’re too busy. Move on.’ You’re still making a film that you want to be right. But I find, as an actor, that I worked better when the directors were working fast,” he said.
Clint Eastwood once preferred directing over acting
Although he’s experienced massive success doing both, Eastwood asserted that there were certain benefits being a filmmaker had over being an actor.
“To doing both jobs, I’ve done it so many times that I never put the difference in. Directing a film is the same… it’s a little more leisurely that way. You don’t have to suit up. People aren’t coming in and combing your hair or whatever. It’s a little more leisurely, but different. But they both have an adventure. It’s a new adventure,” he said.
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John Wayne Turned Down Oscar-Winning Lead Role Because It’s ‘the Most Un-American Thing I’ve Ever Seen in My Whole Life,’

Oscar-winning actor John Wayne is one of Hollywood’s biggest icons. The world knows him for his war and western movies that audiences of all ages could enjoy. However, he also turned down a fair amount of roles over the course of his career. Wayne rejected the lead role in High Noon and called it “the most un-American thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

Wayne didn’t serve in the military, which would later become one of his biggest regrets. Nevertheless, he was still a major patriot. Wayne was vocal when it came to speaking his mind about his conservative Republican values. He frequently spoke his mind about his perspective and how they related to the social and political climate in interviews. Wayne turned down some roles in movies such as Steven Spielberg’s 1941 as a result of his patriotism.

However, Wayne’s views were also at odds with many of his colleagues. His 1971 Playboy interview remains in many minds. Wayne openly said a slur against the LGBTQ community and made racially problematic statements. He’s a Hollywood icon who was never afraid to speak his mind, regardless of who or what it was about.

Ronald L. Davis’ Duke: The Life and Image of John Wayne explores the Oscar-winner’s past and his interactions with various Hollywood productions. He was offered the role of Marshal Will Kane in Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon. He turned the role down, which then went to actor Gary Cooper instead.

The story follows Will as he’s getting ready to leave the small town of Hadleyville, New Mexico, with his new wife, Amy (Grace Kelly). He discovers a criminal who was set free and is set on seeking revenge on the marshal who originally turned him in. The townsfolk cower in fear of his return, so Will has to face him alone.
“The most un-American thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” Wayne said. “I’ll never regret having helped run Carl Foreman [High Noon’s screenwriter] out of the country.” Foreman was a member of the Communist Party for a time, which Wayne called out.
Davis noted that “Duke incorrectly remembered the Western’s final scene as one in which the United States marshal played by Gary Cooper throws his badge to the ground and steps on it.” However, Cooper’s character never steps on the badge. Rather, he tosses it to the ground before retreating to the desert.
Gary Cooper won an Oscar for ‘High Noon’
Wayne would finally win an Oscar with his third nomination for Best Actor in a Leading Role for 1969’s True Grit. However, he was earlier nominated for Best Actor in a Leading Role for Sands of Iwo Jima and Best Picture for The Alamo.

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John Wayne famously stormed up to Douglas after a screening to rage: “Christ, Kirk, how can you play a part like that

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I’m Spartacus!” – “I’m Spartacus!” – “I’M SPARTACUS!” Every film buff knows that moment, every panel-show comedian riffs on it. A mob of defeated slave rebels in the pre-Christian Roman empire is told their wretched lives will be spared, but only if their ringleader, Spartacus (Kirk Douglas), comes out and gives himself up to be executed. Just as he is about to sacrifice himself, one slave, Antoninus (Tony Curtis) jumps up and claims to be Spartacus, then another, and another, then all of them, a magnificent display of solidarity, while the man himself allows a tear to fall in closeup.

This variant on the Christian myth – in the face of crucifixion, Spartacus’s disciples do not deny him – is a pointed political fiction. In real life, Spartacus was killed on the battlefield. The screenplay was written by Dalton Trumbo, the blacklisted author who had to work under aliases and found no solidarity in Hollywood. Yet Douglas himself, as the film’s producer, stood up for Trumbo. He put Trumbo’s real name in the credits, and ended the McCarthy-ite hysteria.

Kirk Douglas in SpartacusHe’s Spartacus: Douglas in his most famous role.The main reason the scene is so potent is its extraordinary irony. Who on earth could claim to be Spartacus when Spartacus looked like that? Douglas is a one-man Hollywood Rushmore, almost hyperreal in his masculinity. He is the movie-world’s Colossus of Rhodes, a figure of pure-granite maleness yet with something feline, and a sinuous, gravelly voice. Douglas is a heart-on-sleeve actor, mercurial and excitable; he has played tough guys and vulnerable guys, heroes and villains. And, as a pioneering producer, he brought two Stanley Kubrick films to the screen: Spartacus (he hired Kubrick to replace Anthony Mann) and his first world war classic Paths of Glory in which he was superb, playing a principled French army officer.

One hundred years ago today, Douglas was born Issur Danielovitch, the son of a Moscow-born Russian Jewish ragman, in upstate New York. An uncle had been killed in the pogroms at home. In his 1988 memoir, The Ragman’s Son, Douglas describes the casual antisemitism he faced almost throughout his career. Rebranding yourself with a Waspy stage-name was what actors – and immigrants in general – had to do in America to survive and thrive.

After a start on the Broadway stage, he made his screen reputation playing the driven fighter Midge Kelly in the exhilarating boxing movie Champion (1949), which earned him the first of his three Oscar nominations. Champion has stunning images and a notable slo-mo scene: it is much admired by Martin Scorsese and transparently an influence on Raging Bull. In Detective Story (1951), directed by William Wyler, Douglas gives a grandstanding star turn in a melodrama set in a police station, playing the vindictive, violent McLeod, an officer with an awful secret. It was a movie that laid down the template for all cop TV shows, including The Streets of San Francisco, which was to star Douglas’s son Michael.
But it was in Ace in the Hole (1951), directed by Billy Wilder, that Douglas gives his first classic performance: the sinister newspaper reporter Chuck Tatum, who prolongs the ordeal of a man trapped in a cave to create a better story. He is an electrifying villain in that film, a Phineas T Barnum of media untruth. At one stage he slaps the wife of the trapped man (whom he is also seducing) because she wasn’t sufficiently demure and sad-looking for his purposes, like an imperious film director looking for a better performance. He is also brilliant in Vincente Minnelli’s The Bad and the Beautiful (1952) as Jonathan Shields, the diabolically persuasive movie producer who betrays everyone.
Arguably, it is in Paths of Glory (1958) that Douglas finds his finest hour as the tough, principled Colonel Dax, who stands up to the callous and incompetent senior officers of the high command. Douglas’s handsome, unsmiling face is set like a bayonet of contempt.
Douglas himself prizes his sensitive and Oscar-nominated performance as Vincent van Gogh in another Vincente Minnelli film, Lust for Life, from 1956. Some may smile a little at this earnest and high-minded movie now, but it is very watchable, with a heartfelt belief that Van Gogh’s art can be understood by everyone. There is a bold, passionate performance from Douglas, who simply blazes with agony. Not everyone liked it. John Wayne famously stormed up to Douglas after a screening to rage: “Christ, Kirk, how can you play a part like that? There’s so goddamn few of us left. We got to play tough, strong characters. Not those weak queers!”
Douglas has endured a scene of almost Freudian trauma in his career. Having bought the rights to Ken Kesey’s novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in the 1960s, he himself played the lead for its Broadway adaptation: McMurphy, the subversive wild-man imprisoned in a psychiatric hospital.
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