Death Wish and Dirty Harry, a Comparative Analysis more

THE HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM Cultures of Rage and Revenge Home Exam By Naaman Hirschfeld Program of Cultural Studies Submitted to Dr. Andreas Kraft 10/2/2011 [Exam Guidelines] Compare "Death Wish" and "Dirty Harry" and take the following questions/aspects into account:    What is the relation between aggressive emotions (esp. rage) and justice in the two films (and in general)? Describe the stylistic strategies each film uses to depict rage and revenge. Is revenge depicted as a positive phenomenon? Have the films a (social and/or political) message? In the following paper I shall discuss the films "Dirty Harry" (c1971) and "Death Wish" (c1974) relative to the above four aspects/questions by focusing on the construction of the protagonist character as a 'hero'. This will indicate something of the differences and similarities between these two films, for the 'hero' character in both films typifies and embodies the intricate relationships each constitutes between rage, revenge and justice. Dirty Harry A good way to begin a discussion of a work is to question the meaning of its title, which in the instance of the film "Dirty Harry", refers to the nickname of its protagonist – police inspector Harry Callahan. The question of the meaning of this nickname is overtly brought up in the film itself: first when Callahan's rookie partner Chico Gonzalez asks – "There is one question inspector Callahan. Why do they call you "Dirty" Harry?" to which the elderly detective Frank DiGiorgio immediately replies – "Ah that's one thing about our Harry, he doesn't play any favorites! Harry hates everybody: Limeys, Micks, Hebes, Fat Dagos, Niggers, Honkies, Chinks, you name it." And later when Callahan says to Gonzalez (immediately after saving a man from committing suicide by punching him in the face) that "Now you know why they call me "Dirty Harry": every dirty job that comes along", thus offering his own answer to the question. Yet while 1 the film offers two possible interpretations to the protagonist's name/film's title, these do not suffice to explain Gonzalez's question, and in fact amplify it with their partiality. Thus we must ask what exactly Callahan's dirtiness is, and how does it relate to the depiction, valuation and linking of rage, revenge and justice? Let us begin from the obvious: to dab a policeman (or for that matter any other official) 'dirty' is to call him or her 'corrupt'; someone who abused the powers 'vested' onto him (/her) for personal gain, pleasure and so forth – often in direct violation of the law; someone who failed the public obligation he took, which in the U.S. takes the form of an oath – making him/her into an 'oath-breaker'. Thus to be 'dirty' in this sense is to be a criminal in a lowly sense – it is to be without 'honor', 'scrupulous' and 'integrity'; it is to fail personally and publically, and become that which one swore to oppose. Yet while Harry Callahan is portrayed as someone who easily breaks rules, bends regulations and ignores the constitutional rights of suspects – which justifies his nickname at least as far as the institutional framework in which he operates is concerned – he is clearly not 'dirty' in this sense but is rather the 'cleanest' character in film: he serves a higher, purer and more natural form of justice, which allows him to do things his way, i.e. to do the right thing in the "wrong" way ('to play it dirty') without diminishing the significance of his actions. Here one may argue that this is not always the case: when Callahan tortures the suspect "Scorpio", he 'goes too far' in ignoring the letter of the law and the suspect 'walks away clean'. Yet even in this instance, in which Callahan does the 'wrong thing', he does it for the right reason – saving the kidnapped girl, and while he fails to save her, it is not because of his own failing but rather because "evil", as it is embodied by Scorpio, is duplicitous – as Callahan suspected, the girl was dead all along. But while Callahan does represent the notion that the 'end justifies the means', this is so in a strictly hierarchical division: the saving of a single 'innocent life', which is ultimately but not exclusively represented by children in the film, supersedes in its importance the destruction of evil, which in turn supersedes the obligation to follow the letter of the law. Yet does this mean that Callahan's nickname is simply ironic? In my opinion such a reading is dangerously partial. As I already mentioned, the film offers two interpretations to the significance of Harry's dirtiness: [1] he is dirty because of his 'hateful' outlook, quite literally 2 seeing 'dirt' all around him, and [2] he is (also) dirty because he is willing to do "any dirty job that comes along", i.e. is 'unafraid to get his hands dirty'. While the first of these seems to suggest that Callahan is a racist, his anger at the murder of the African-American boy Charlie Russell and especially his offer to make Chico his permanent partner after the latter is wounded while saving Callahan from Scorpio, indicate that his misanthropic demeanor is nothing but that: he is deeply and fundamentally pessimistic, possessing a fatalistic outlook, yet he judges people according to their actions (/merit) and not according to their extraction or any other suchlike criteria. Here we should consider that unlike Paul Kersey, the protagonist in "Death Wish", Callahan is presented to the viewer in his complete form. Whatever history shaped him (the death of his wife in a meaningless car accident; the notorious case he had the previous year) serves merely the function of a background story, as he already possesses all the skills, traits and qualities that make him into a hero: he is a police officer of the highest field rank (inspector), and is an apt investigator and hardened veteran of murder cases. He is considered by many, including the chief of police, to be the 'right man for the job', while caring naught for formalities and politics – having an extremely direct, even abrupt attitude. He does not have a permanent partner because his previous partners have either been seriously wounded or killed, all this while his own injuries do not deter him from continuing on his mission (in an almost spiritual sense). He is highly familiar with, and is able to blend in, the city's darkest and sleaziest places (as his trailing of Scorpio indicates). And, when he stops to eat launch, we learn that he keeps a simple routine (both launch and dinner are sausages in a bun); that he is on friendly terms with simple people with whom he communicates on 'the level'; that he has extremely sharp 'gut instincts', and that he is a supremely skilled gunman with 'nerves of iron' – killing two bank robbers and disabling a third while still chewing his launch. Finally, in the very same scene we also learn something about his fatalism when Callahan utters the film's most famous lines: I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 3 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk? The above text returns twice in the film: first in the above mentioned bank robbery scene, and later in the closing scene. In both instances Callahan looms above the criminal whom he just defeated and challenges him to 'make a move' for his weapon. Apparently Callahan does not know himself if he has a bullet in the chamber, and he thus challenges his opponents to a battle of will. Yet while in its first appearance this text seems to be spontaneous, its return in the closing scene renders it into a motto, which, by and by, gives rise to the gnawing suspicion that Callahan in fact knows exactly how many bullets he fired; that he nonetheless confronts the bank robber in the first scene although his gun is empty; and especially that he stands above Scorpio with the full intent of killing him, given (or even awaiting) the right 'justification'. Callahan's willingness to enter into a battle of wits/will with his foes while putting his self at mortal danger, when combined with the suspicion that Callahan in fact knows what the outcome will be if his opponent will go for his gun, paints him in a very strange light. On the one hand he sees his foes and himself from the outside and is in this manner ironically disengaged, yet he nonetheless submits to fate or 'luck', giving his foe the opportunity to choose his course of action and thus knowingly risks his own life for the possibility of terminating that of his foe. Yet here we can see (at least) three things: Callahan only kills in self-defense or in the defense of others – if his opponent chooses to go for his gun, Callahan does not bear the weight of the consequences because he is simply reacting in an appropriate manner; furthermore, the introduction of the element of fate transforms the act of killing, hereby turned into a reaction, into a moral, and even spiritual, vindication – Callahan is triumphant because things are necessarily as they should be; finally, at the moment of choice Callahan exerts his will in a manner that reinforces his freedom – whatever resolution the scenario will have Callahan has asserted his mastery of his own destiny, ironically by relinquishing control, and the defeat of his foes is therefore complete with the very possibility of death becoming part of Callahan's will. 4 Yet there is also another dimension to this, one which connects with the second interpretation the film offers for the significance of Harry's 'dirtiniess', and which posits his actions within the realm of the necessary, albeit in a different sense. Simply put Callahan challenges his opponents in this way because he has to: criminals of their kind should ultimately be 'put down' because the kind of justice that operates here is biblical– an 'eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth', and Harry, being the man who 'takes care of business', is in effect the collector of debt. From the perspective of "lex talionis" – the principle (/law) of retaliation, Callahan's actions seek to mend the fabric of the world by returning unto the criminal that which he unleashed. Yet this cannot be rendered so neatly, while metaphysically Callahan's actions seek equilibrium, the active force beyond them – rage – which finds an outlet in their actualization as violence, is in itself 'dirty', but in a qualitatively different way from that of Scorpio – his antithesis. Let us inspect the latter's character in an outline. Scorpio (in my opinion a reference to the real-world serial killer "Zodiac", who was active in the San Francisco bay area in the early 1970s), appears in the film's first scene, not as a character but rather as a presence – the gaze of a murderous peeping-tom who 'takes in' a beautiful girl swimming through the scope of a hunting rifle, and then, pulling the trigger, he 'takes her out', thereby making her his. While the actual villain as an embodied entity is absent, Scorpio in fact appears in his complete-partiality: he is a non-man; the phantasmagoric fabrication of a sick mind which 'devoured' its pathetic creator (Scorpio's real name is never revealed in either the film or credits) – the reclusive, narcissistic, and under-achieving groundskeeper of a football stadium. Because of the unspeakable wrong that is his actual being – unrecognized for the greatness he clearly possesses, against which he rebels with spite – mistaking weakness for strength, he becomes a 'will to power' that can only consume; what drives him is an insatiable need for recognition: to manifest the power he has as the unseen viewer in the 'hearts and minds' of those who have 'real' power, by exerting his will in a manner that clearly demarcates him as 'lord' (in the Hegelian sense), thus, in a way, making him into the 'seen-unseen'. The sensation of power, ultimately tied to the taking of life, gives Scorpio "pleasure", as he describes it in the first letter he sends the mayor, and at the 5 beginning of the film he is mostly depicted as self-satisfied: moving slowly, smiling to himself, while feeling secure in his hiding places. Yet the increasing frustration of his will and the incremental process by which he is exposed transform this self-gratified mania: beginning with the mayor's choice of delay tactics and the throttling of his second attempt by a police helicopter, continuing with the failed ambush Callahan and Gonzalez prepare for him outside the church, and culminating with his failure to kill Callahan – who physically hurts him – at the ransom drop-off; Scorpio develops a fury that is proportional to his lack of control and exposure. This is suggested by the letters Scorpio sends – with the first being selfgratifying, and the second furious; by the increasingly exaggerated facial expressions and physical movements that develop from slow controlled movements replete with self-pleased smiles, through agitated movement combined with wide-eyed smiles and frowns, and culminating with explosive 'fits of rage'; and with the escalating monstrosity of his actions – gradually working his way from the taking of 'beauty' to the defiling and destruction of 'innocence'. Here let us consider the type of 'vengeance' that Scorpio represents. While he is depicted as a pathetic creature – in power when hidden, but cowering when exposed (he squeals and begs for his life when caught the first time) – this 'pathetic-ness' is the source of his distorted 'power' as he is able to almost eradicate his own self to get at Callahan: when desperate to get Callahan 'off him', he pays a black muscle-man to beat him to the point of disfiguration, and there, at 'rock bottom', his frustrated fury turns into a maniacal rage as the humiliation he was dealt by Callahan is willingly transformed into violence against his-self in order to 'get back' at Callahan. Now, Callahan's willingness to confront Scorpio, to risk life and limb to capture and in fact destroy him, and to do what is necessary for the task is in a way what makes him 'dirty'. While Callahan's 'dirt' is not depicted as a spiritual corruption – unlike his distorted nemesis who is clearly valuated as 'evil', Callahan's 'violence', morally dubious at times, is always exercised controllably and for a just purpose – it is more than simple 'non-innocence': Callahan in fact enjoys and even glories in violence (somewhat like Achilles, if we follow Sloterdijk's reading) – as his amused demeanor in delivering his motto to the defeated bank robber suggests, and it is this 'moral taint' that which makes him into a 'hero'. In difference to the police 6 brass and mayor, Callahan is able to fully gauge and react to the danger Scorpio poses because he is truly capable of being enraged – his 'energy' grows in proportion to the crimes of his enemy. This is evident in his increasingly vocal frustration at the mayor/police brass's actions, his willingness to break the rules, and ultimately in his increasingly angry disposition, culminating with the second delivery of the motto in the closing scene, in which Callahan is portrayed in close-up, his face contracted in rage, as he spits one word at a time – obviously finding it both spiteful and difficult to control himself. In this gestalt 'revenge' qua 'retribution' is posits as a positive action. Yet in asking whether or not the film has a social/political message, we must remain disappointed: in my opinion, aside from a general reinforcement of conservative ideals, an implied criticism of the moral decay of urban life, and a by large attenuated criticism of existing institutional frameworks (even the mayor seems to be relatively benign), the film does not challenge the viewer to rethink his preestablished conceptions of how things are or should be. This is obvious, in my opinion, if we consider the depiction of the above mentioned elements (urban settings, institutional frameworks etc…), as well as the portrayal of crime, sin, violence and so forth, in relation to the immensely significant tradition of the western: while Scorpio – a 'degenerate' urban predator – is an unusual villain relative to this tradition (fitting better with the hard edged detective film), reflecting the change of settings as well as situating the film contemporaneously, Harry Callahan qua "Dirty" Harry, is an almost archetypical "white hat" gunfighter.1 This of course did not escape many of the film's viewers – with Clint Eastwood, already a famed silver screen and T.V. cowboy, cast in the leading role. I am not arguing that Harry Callahan can simply be reduced to the generic mold of a cowboy, this will be too simplistic, and will render superfluous my analysis of his 'dirtiness'. But I am arguing that the moral-ethical scheme the film constitutes through the relationship between the protagonist and all other characters, including his "arch-enemy", does not break away from the value system that is presented by the typical western of the period, and especially, that its 1 One of the characteristic tropes in westerns is the depiction of the 'good guys' in white hats and the 'bad guys' in black hats. 7 treatment of violence, revenge, rage and justice is contiguous with that tradition, and as such simply and literally reflects a traditional (/conservative) valuation of the associated ideals. Here we must remember that 1971, the year "Dirty Harry" came out, was one of the worst years in post-WW2 U.S history: the Vietnam war was still raging, with a massive air campaign expending the war into Laos and Cambodia; following the exposure of the so called “Pentagon Papers”, it was revealed the government has deliberately lied to the public; the VVAW (Vietnam Veterans Against the War) launched their “Winter Soldier Investigation” – asserting that U.S. forces were committing a genocide in Vietnam; the economy was showing strong signs of a recession, with constantly rising prices and shrinking employment; and the usual American self-perception as a nation who took care of its heroes was seriously hurt when Sgt. Dwight Johnson, an African-American Vietnam Veteran who won the Medal of Honor, was shot dead while attempting to rob a liquor store in Chicago, highlighting the treatment real life heroes received if they were of the wrong skin color. All of which remained conspicuously untreated by the film. At this juncture we shall turn to "Death Wish", a film that was made three years after "Dirty Harry", starring the Hollywood tough guy Charles Bronson (who also appeared in a few westerns beforehand), and which treats several approximate themes in an altogether different way. Death Wish "Death Wish" is an unconventional, even surprising film that works the traditional theme of the 'regenerated (frontier) hero' into a radical statement about the American ethos. This statement in turn can be seen, as either a genuine message of renewal, a blind escape from the horrors and disillusionment of the present, and/or as an ironic critique of the Hollywood film industry and its (ideologically becloaked) products. But, I am putting the wagon in front of the horses: before we can consider the film's social/political message we must first consider its contents relative to its depiction, valuation and linking of rage, revenge and justice. 8 Now, speaking comparatively, there is a fundamental structural and generic difference between the two 'action' films with which this paper deals: "Dirty Harry" is formally an 'action-thriller' with an event and action driven plot that incrementally builds the suspense – alternating between low and high tension scenes – towards an ultimate cathartic release. The protagonist, in turn, is introduced in contrast to an antagonist character, or villain, with the interaction between the two being a dichotomous dialectic that is encapsulated within a redemptive-teleological narrative (the triumph of "good" is never really in question, albeit the crisis caused by "evil"). Yet while the protagonist's heroic characteristics are established and introduced in this fashion, his heroic nature is neither derived from, nor is contingent upon, any internal plot element: this dialectic is only possible because the 'good-guy' and the 'bad-guy' are construed as opposite from the very beginning. "Death Wish", on the other hand, is a 'psychological-drama' with only partial 'thriller' traits, which appear mainly in the second half of the film. The plot centers on the development, behavior and mental life of a protagonist character – Paul Kersey – who, in difference to the pure exteriority of "Dirty" Harry Callahan, appears to the viewer gradually in a narrative of crisis and transformation that can be understood as a "monomyth" – a hero's foundational story; a journey of becoming by which a common man becomes an extraordinary hero.2 In this narrative there is a tense play between interiority and exteriority – between a previous being, and it's becoming different in present circumstance – which composes, through several stages, Paul Kersey's (qua the hero's) story: first there is the pre-heroic appearance of the protagonist; then a 'fateful'/external event fractures his established self/reality, leading to a crisis that sets him on a course of transformation – at first as pure reaction, then as a conscious choice to change and become; thus galvanized, the narrative reaches its apex with the establishment of a new relation with the world, one that equates him with the disposition, manner, reasons for and capacity to take actions ('make deeds'); finally culminating, upon the actualization of these qualities, with his emergence as a 'hero'. 2 The term 'monomyth' was developed by the famous comparative-mythologist Joseph Campbell in his seminal work "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" (c1949), and has been widely adapted (see for instance Jewett and Lawrence's book "The Myth of the American Superhero" (Michigan: Eerdmans, 2002.) 9 The manner in which this narrative is plotted in "Death Wish" connects it, in my opinion, with one of the key tropes in American literary/cinematic tradition. Let us take a slight detour to consider this film in a larger context. In his seminal trilogy of critical works (Regeneration Through Violence (c1973), The Fatal Environment (c1985) and Gunfighter Nation (c1992)), Richard Slotkin analyzes a massive corpus of American texts, ranging over a period of three centuries, to reveal certain distinctive poetic, tropic and metaphoric forms that he understands as constitutive of the ideological-semiotic constellation that forms the basic matrix of white America's 'myth-history', with the last term standing for a "*…+ complex of narratives that dramatizes the world vision and historical sense of a people or culture, reducing centuries of experience into a constellation of compelling metaphors." (Slotkin 1973, p. 3). Now, while there are obvious and rather serious theoretical difficulties with assuming the existence of such a singular tradition, let alone one that is conceived of (rather bombastically) as the "*…+ intelligible mask of the enigma called the nation character *…+" (Ibid, same), in my opinion he is able to convincingly describe the historical development of a wide array of forms relating in one way or another to a distinctive body of narratives he refers to as the American "Frontier Myth". Chief among these forms, and of special concern for our purposes, is the master trope of "regeneration through violence". According to Slotkin this trope originated with the captivity narratives of the early puritan settlers, who, when faced with captivity by the "Indians", used their violent encounters with those construed as "savages" as proof of their own civilized nature, and especially as a means by which they reaffirmed their religious identity and devotion. When the original colonies expanded and lost their puritan hue, the colonization process accelerated, and the brutality and frequency of the violent encounters between the settlers (/colonizers) and the natives increased. As a result the 'regeneration' associated with the violent encounter shifted from the spiritual and cultural self-affirmation of the early puritan settlers, into what became the defining trope of white-colonial ("American") expansion into the "frontier". The basic narrative matrix for this 'regeneration' can be summarized as such: in moving to the frontier territory, the metropolitan man (seldom a woman) – perhaps fresh of the ship from Europe – enters an alien, hostile realm, that is conceived of as "the 10 Wilderness". In this realm resides the Indian – the true American who mirrors the attributes of the land in being both "savage" and "hostile" – and the settler’s encounter with him necessarily leads to a violent conflict. In order to survive his struggle with both Indian and Wilderness, the white settler must undergo a process of transformation that will connect him to the environment and make him into the savage's equal. Thus, in order to survive the settler must shed the excessive and enthropied (/degenerated) shell of "civilization" and become a hardier, tougher, purer, natural man – one who has a true claim for the land, because, like the native, he belongs to it. (Slotkin 1992, pp. 1-27). With "Death Wish" being a story that is set in modern day New York (city), this trope does not and in fact cannot appear in its historical form, and is instead adapted to the historical context the film locates itself as belonging to, i.e. the then 'contemporary period'. This is achieved by positing this trope, or more precisely its product, as an originary (i.e. archaic) state that can and should be restored through a transformation that is construed as a 'radical regeneration'. By this I mean to say that it is both a 'regeneration' in the above mentioned tropic sense, i.e. one that facilitates the cleansing and violent shedding of the enthropied shell of "civilization", thereby leading to what can be defined as an essential self-transformation; and that the results of this are not construed as the creation of a "new" identity, but rather as the rediscovery and restoration of an archaic (semi-lost) state that is radical in the sense of being a 'return' to the hidden but vital roots of the heroic spirit. Let us inspect this narrative, and the way in which it is composed, in greater detail – beginning with the pre-heroic appearance of the protagonist: The film opens with an idyllic scene in which the protagonist Paul and his wife Joanna are on a beach at Maui (Hawaii) – Joanna poses while Paul is taking pictures, and the two flirt. We learn that they are past their prime – she is in her late forties/early fifties, he looks older and is somewhere in his late fifties, but they are still in love. Of special importance is the short dialogue that ensues between the two once the sexual tension raises – Joanna suggests they return to the hotel, obviously implying sex, in response Paul asks "what's wrong with right here?", to which she answers "we are too civilized", concluding with his statement "I remember when we weren't…, let's go back to the hotel". This is then followed by a cut scene that depicts the remainder of 11 their vacation and return to the city – contrasting the exotic, free and arousing space of Maui, and the freedom and passion the two felt, with the comfortable but habitually unexciting life the two lead in the drab, congested and ordinary space of New York City. This part of the story is then concluded by Paul's return to work, a scene in which we learn of Paul's high level of professionalism, and, through his dialogue with his colleague Sam, of his moral/political outlook and the situation in the city: Sam: "Do you know what was happening when you and Joanna were living it up in Maui or Caui or Yaui, whatever it is?" Paul: "What?" Sam: "There were fifteen murders the first week, and twenty one the last week in this goddamned city" Paul [statement, while reading the computer printout]: "That's a lot"; Sam: "You know decent people will have to work here and live somewhere else." Paul: "By decent people you mean people who can afford to live somewhere else?" Sam: "You are such a bleeding heart liberal Paul!" Paul: "My heart bleeds a little for the underprivileged, yea" Sam: "The underprivileged are beating our goddamned brains out! You know what I say? Stick 'em in concentration camps. That’s what I say." Thus in the film's opening, we are introduced to Paul in his manifestation as a middle-aged, upper-middle class New York architect, who, albeit his many good qualities – a loving husband, a capable professional, a gentle and moral man – lives in a 'civilized' manner, i.e. accepts with resignation his older age, and appears to be content with the set course his life seems to take. Here we should note two important elements – the urban environment and Paul's moral/political views, which, unbeknownst to both protagonist and viewer, will be shown to be at an extreme disparity rather quickly: while Paul as indeed a 'bleeding heart liberal' who cares for the poor, the city, in the current 'crime wave', is a sinister, violent "wilderness" in which a person is more than likely to get assaulted. The next stage – the crisis, begins with the occurrence of an exterior event: three "freaks" (thus in the film's credits) follow Paul's wife Joanna and daughter 12 Carol Toby from the supermarket, and invade their home by impersonating the groceries' delivery. These three are depicted is grotesque – they appear to be maniacal sadists, enjoying mayhem and destruction. They are first seen gorging themselves at the supermarket, occasionally fighting each other. Once they obtain Joanna’s’s address from the groceries package we see their maniacal, devious smiles in close up – obviously intending to enjoy themselves. This 'fun' continues throughout the scene, the three appear to be extremely jubilant, drawing gratification from brutality and destruction. In storming into the apartment the three overpower the women, and one of them, the "artiste", draws a swastika on the wall (relating in an ironic inversion to Sam's words at the office scene – while he would like to put the 'brain bashing underprivileged in a concentration camp', these three 'freaks' are a Nazi like malignancy). Upon learning that the women have only small change, their leader (wearing a clown's hat) warns Carol that "you are going to get the shit kicked out of you!" and another one asks carol "wanna get fucked?" When Joanna attempts to defend her daughter, the violence commences – the leader hits her hard, she falls to the ground and then we see a close up of his face contorting in rage as he screams "rich cunt! I kill rich cunts!" while beating her repeatedly. At the same time another freak assaults Carol – manhandling her, stripping her by force and sexually assaulting her with a wide grin on his face. The 'Artiste' standing at the window comments that "mother is getting the shit kicked out of her" with an amused, stoned expression on his face. The scene then reaches its apex with a horrific, symbolic depiction of the three sexually defiling Carol – while one of them holds her down, the 'Artist' paints her rear-end with graffiti, to which the leader says "I'll show you how to paint! I'm gonna pee into her mouth", which he continues to do. As a result of this sadistic assault the two women are destroyed: Joanna in a physical sense, dying from her injuries, and Carol in an emotional sense, being traumatized she eventually develops a catatonic state (i.e. 'living death'). Upon hearing the news from his son in law Jack Toby, Paul rushes to the E.R., only to discover that his wife died from her injuries. In the next two scenes Paul appears to be wondrously composed – he stands alone without crying in the funeral scene, and upon his visit to the police station seems to be completely rational, even 13 when he learns that there is almost no chance the assailants will ever be apprehended. But then we see Paul at home, sitting in the dark, watching T.V. with a glass of milk in his hands, when a bank commercial comes on and asks the viewer: "Are you getting the most out of life? Fulfilled? Happy? Our bank has helped many to a better future…." At this Paul closes the T.V and walks to the window, only to see three punks breaking a parking car's (perhaps his own) window and steal a bag, at which he promptly closes the curtain. Thus far we see Paul acting in a 'civilized' manner – he performs all of his duties, and yet prefers to close the curtains when he is confronted by the city's ugliness. Here we ought to consider an aspect of the film's cinematic language that has, in my opinion, integral importance. Prior to the last scene I described there appears a short scene depicting Carol lying on a bed with a dull stare in her eyes. When Jack approaches her with a smile on his face, she jolts and screams, obviously in a senseless panic. The importance of the scene is both in its content, and in its order of appearance: by merit of appearing immediately before the scene I discussed above, the narrative creates a comparison between Carol and Paul. From this point of the film, every time we see a scene with Carol – always in a manner that indicates her worsening condition – it is immediately followed by a scene in which Paul's condition is reflectively reassessed, and then a scene in which his transformation develops. Thus with these two scenes we get a comparable view of Carol and Paul – she is "acting out" her traumatic experience, he is choosing not to contend with the full ugliness of the city even after the brutalization of his family, which, by force of the comparison, is also rendered as a form of "acting out".3 Now, Paul's reaction begins: the next morning he decides to go back to work, i.e. 'to return to life', and stops on his way at the post office to change a 20$ bill into quarters. Once he arrives at the office he inserts these into a sock and makes a makeshift weapon, immediately after which Sam enters and tells him – "Paul you are 3 While this might appear incidental, the film's title can in fact be understood as an intertextual reference to Sigmund Freud's 1920 monograph "Beyond the Pleasure Principle", in which he begins from the problematic of 'trauma neuroses' to develop a radical break from his previous 'libidinal' model by offering a duality of primary forces, i.e. 'death drives' and 'life drives' (or later "thanatos" and "eros"), which shape the unconscious kernel of the psyche, and in which "death-wish" stands for any organism's primal desire to die through its innate 'causes'. See: (Freud, 1961, esp. chapters IV & V). Due to my insufficient understanding of Freud's thought I have decided to leave this outside the scope of my discussion. 14 tough. You really are. I told Aives [the boss] this morning: Paul is not the kind of man who leaves the pieces of his life lying around, he picks them up." After being told by his boss that he would like to send Paul to Tucson (Arizona) to work on the "Jainchill Project" (the one he projected the risks for in the third scene), and thus give him a bit of break from "the city", Paul visits Carol and Jack: she is sleeping, sedated, unable to cope with a reality in which her traumatic experience is always present. In the dialogue Paul has with Jack – who is portrayed as a gentle, fragile man, who typifies the "bleeding heart liberal" archetype – Paul hears from him that he is taking Carol to the sea shore without Paul upon 'doctor's orders', which also means that Paul has nothing to stay home for, freeing him to go to Tucson. Yet before this happens we see a highly significant scene – Paul is walking home at night, presumably from Carol and Jack's house, when he suddenly hears the sound of a match being struck. He turns around with an intense expression on his face – the camera zooms in, his pupils dilate, he exchanges a glance with a black man who smokes a cigarette while leaning on a wall, and suddenly, so it seems, Jack realizes: he sees the 'mean streets', he sees the low characters around him, and the danger becomes palpable. He starts to walk more quickly, obviously anxious to get off the street. A police car passes him with lights on, yet this does not change the feeling of danger, the eerie soundtrack continues to create suspense, when, less than a block away, a sleazy looking white guy jumps behind him with a knife in his hand and says: "Son of a bitch. Turn around son of a bitch." Paul puts his hands on his face, they are shaking, and he is obviously mortified, but then the mugger says "Motherfucker, I said turn around. Give me the money", at which point Paul puts his hands in his pocket, slowly turns around, and in a split second, 'gives him the money' by slamming his face with the quarters-filled-sock. The mugger drops the knife and runs away in a panic, Paul looks at him flabbergasted, and then turns around and breaks into a run himself, obviously shocked. A sharp cut presents us with Paul's shaking hands grasping for a liquor decanter, and, as the camera recedes, Paul, shaking all over, Pours a full glass and drinks it down. Then we see through a different angle, the camera is low, near the floor, and Paul is standing several meters away. He turns around, recomposes himself, walks towards the camera and takes the makeshift weapon out of his pocket. An exhilarated look comes onto his face, he 15 hits a nearby plant with the sock, feeling powerful, he then starts to flail it above his head, but when he hits a nearby chair the sock is torn and the coins fly out of it. By presenting Paul in a manner that enlarges him – appearing in the center of the frame, taller then he actually is – but at the same time casts him in an ironic light by making him the subject of humor, this scene represents, in my opinion, a shift in the proportions of the character: he is moving between dimensions; is in a 'growing process', and relative to Carol, is "working through" – but while empowered, he is not yet ready to move from a reactive to an active position. This changes, with the next stage of the narrative – his trip to Arizona, or in more abstract terms – the recovery of a lost self. Upon arriving at Tucson, Paul meets Ames Jainchill – a local real estate developer who stereotypically represents the western core values: he has an offwhite cowboy hat, a Chevrolet with cowhide seats and bull horns on its hood which serves as some sort of a symbol for his 'cowboyhood', speaks with an extremely prominent accent and is a member of the N.R.A (National Rifle Association). Yet as an exaggerated a character as he may be, Ames does represent a positive force within the plot – underneath the tacky 'traditional' veneer, there is a kernel of vital energy that is deemed 'true' and 'wise' in a manner that all other characters, being 'city-folk', seem to lack. This is already indicated in the airport where Ames appears to be much warmer than the previously depicted characters, but becomes obvious when he takes Paul to see the land that is intended for development. In the dialogue between the two, he explains that he wanted to show Paul the land because he does not want it destroyed in the developing process, to which Paul reacts by saying: "You'll waste a lot of building space", inciting Ames to share his view that "Those are words you big developers have to change for something else", prompting Paul to ask: "Such as?", and Ames to answer: "Space for life". This short dialogue marks the beginning of a consciousness transformation. Whereby Paul has already began to see that which he refused to, and has moved from a position of non-reaction to a position of self-defense, he is now beginning to transform ideologically: changing from an urban "bleeding-heart liberal" who is immanently incapable of action – inhabited by a degenerated ideological-emotional scheme that is falsely thought of as 'civilization', and which in effect disconnects him 16 from the vital, spontaneous and violent forces of his masculinity, making him into a virtual impotent – into a man that is connected with both the roots of the American spirit, and those of his own manhood; which, in this narrative, appear as two conjoined elements that together constitute Paul's primal-self. After showing Paul the land, Ames takes him to have a drink in a nearby fake western town called "Old Tucson" that occasionally serves as a shooting location for films, and which at the time of their arrival holds a simulated cowboy gun-fight for some tourists. Ames invites Paul to watch the show, and the two see the "marshal" defeating all the "bad-guys", with the scenario, and the scene, ending in a narrator's voice reading the following text over a speakerphone: "The outlaw life seemed a shortcut to easy money, which could buy liquor and women. But there were honest men who would fight, who planted the roots that would grow into a nation." By putting the protagonist in a location that is knowingly presented as a fake version of a bygone thing that was constructed for the film industry, the film foregrounds its own fictionality in a manner that taunts the viewer to question what he/she is in fact watching. Yet, it does not do so in a manner that challenges the viewer's suspension of disbelief, instead inviting the viewer to stand alongside Paul and watch the show. The irony here creates, in my opinion, a comparison between the obviously fake western, and the realistic portrayal of Paul Kersey, prompting the viewer to question the meaning of the 'frontier tradition', and its viability as 'myth'. When this sight is combined with the other highly inauthentic elements that stand for the past in this part of the film, i.e. Ames' character and the extremely kitschy gun-club in the last scene of this part of the film (replete with cowhide armchairs that stand on bull horns, posters of western films, framed guns, and a variety of law enforcement badges and other memorabilia on the walls.), the result is a highly critical statement: the past as itself is dead, appearing only in empty representations, but if one, like Paul, looks at these representations and questions his/her very being, the essential kernel these are supposed to encapsulate can be found internally. Thus it is not a 17 question of a historical heritage, as much as it is the universal significance, always contemporary, this heritage represents. This is clear, in my opinion, with Ames' character, who, while portrayed through a ridicules combination of tacky elements, nonetheless serves as Paul's guide in this transformation. After teaching him the lesson of 'a space for life' and taking him to a place where he is reminded of the 'roots that grew into a nation', Ames and Paul discuss the project, which leads to a scene in which Paul is depicted in the 'great outdoors', taking measurements and establishing a connection with the land, as is evidenced by the exhilarating soundtrack. Then, while Paul is working late at the office, Ames comes by and in commenting on Paul's excessive working habits says "Someone once said, I forget who, that he never looked back because something might be gaining on him, what's gaining on you Paul?", which the latter deflects with "Twenty million dollar investment, what else?". Yet, albeit the deflection, Ames' words are 'right on the money', and without having his question actually answered, he invites Paul to dine at his gun-club. The next scene opens with the two entering a room in the gun-club, presumably after dinner, with Ames venting off about the "gun control people", i.e. liberals and such, and, a dialogue between the two develops: Ames: "Half the nation even scared to hold a gun, like it’s a snake that gonna bite you or some. Hell a gun is just a tool, like a hammer, or an axe – used to put food on the table, keep foxes out of the chicken coop, rustlers off the range, bandits out of the bank. Paul, how long since you held a pistol in your hand?" Paul: "A long time." Ames: "Hm… Which war was yours? Korea?" Paul: "Yeah." Ames: "See much action?" Paul: "A little." Ames: "Were you infantry?" Paul: "I was a C.O. in a medical unit." Ames: "A commanding officer, huh?" Paul: "A conscientious objector." Ames: "Oh, Christ [laughing]… what a guest to bring to a gun club. You probably one of them kneejerk liberals, who thinks we shoot our guns because it's an extension of our penises." Paul: "I never thought about it that way. It could be true." Ames: [dramatic music] "Maybe it is, but this is gun country: can't even own a hand-gun in New York, here, I hardly 18 know a man who doesn't own one. And I tell you something unlike your city, we can walk our streets and through our parks at night and feel safe: muggers out here, they just plain get their asses blown up." Unlike Ames, the viewer knows exactly 'what is gaining on Paul' – the destruction of his family – yet, even without knowing, or perhaps precisely because of it, his words in this scene touch exactly on that, suddenly sounding like a personal message: 'you might ridicule our ways, question our machismo, and take the "high moral ground", but in truth unlike you 'city-men', who allow your family to be destroyed because of your incapacity to protect them, we are unafraid to use the proper tools and do what is necessary to defend our own.' While the above dialogue is taking place Ames takes two old guns out of ornate cases, both belonging to famous 19th century gunfighters. When he finishes speaking he loads one of these pistols and hands it to Paul along with a sounddampening headset. The camera zooms in on Paul, the music intensifies and rises in volume, Ames shouts, "You ever handled on before? You know how to fire it? Watch the kick. You'll think your arm's gonna hit the ceiling." Suddenly, as the crescendo of audio-visual effects reaches a climax, Paul shoots and hits the target 'dead-center', bringing a shout out of Ames. With the sudden silence, a turn in Paul's stance becomes apparent; something inside of him is opening. He asks if Ames will mind if he used the second gun, identifying it by its type – a "hogleg colt", which prompts Ames, who now looks at Paul differently, to answer "no, but you're a peculiar conscientious objector". Here, after passing an ideological barrier, a hitherto unknown aspect of Paul is revealed: "I do know something about guns, Ames, I grew up with them, all kinds of guns. You see, my father was a hunter, I guess out here you call that a gunman. My mother was the other side of the coin, and when my father was killed in a hunting accident – some fool mistook him for a deer, you see – my mother won the toss. [Loading the gun] I never touched a gun since… I loved my father [firing the gun]." 19 The dual complexity that governed Paul's formation, strung between the images of the father-hunter and the protective-mother, surfaces as the remembrance of an integral history, and at that very moment becomes elastic – the death of the father, which heretofore determined its shape as a traumatic narrative, transforming love into pain, is suddenly rendered as the subject of choice; and in a gesture fitting the film's conservative-chauvinistic subtext, he chooses to reconnect with the image of the beloved father, turn away from the inhibiting force of the mother and become one with his masculinity and power, by firing the gun. Thus transformed, the trip to Arizona becomes a resounding success – Paul finishes his design and is able to preserve the natural topography of the land, while still satisfying his company's requirements. In the last scene of this trip, Ames drives Paul to the airport. He puts a little wrapped box in his bag just before check in, stating that it is a farewell gift in appreciation of his efforts, and invites him to come and live in Tucson if he ever gets "tired of living in that toilet". As the next scene opens, the camera focuses on a postcard depicting the New York City skyline and reading "Glittering New-York". With this ironic double vision that activates the contrasting of dreamscape Hawaii and the congested city at the film's beginning, Paul lands in the glittering/cesspool city and meets Jack – only to discover to his dismay that the latter has intentionally misled him about the severity of his daughter's condition. Arriving at the hospital directly from the airport, Paul finds Carol in what appears to be a catatonic state and is seriously distraught. Upon exiting the hospital Paul accuses Jack of mishandling the situation – not doing everything that could have been done, to which Jack answers that it is in fact Paul who is wrong, not recognizing the hopelessness of their reality: "You want to know what they are? Statistics on a police blotter – Mom and Carol, along with thousands of other people, and there is nothing we can do to stop it; nothing but cut and run." Here begins the final stage of Paul's transformation – his emergence as a 'hero'. In the next scene we see Paul standing in his (and Joanna's) bedroom, opening the mail he received while away, when he finds a bundle of photos fresh from development. He looks at photographs of Joanna and himself at Hawaii, inlove. He then opens the suitcase, unwraps Ames' gift and finds a pistol on which the camera zooms in. Unlike Jack (the civilized/weak, sensitive/effeminate, and liberal/ 20 unthinking son-in-law), Paul (the regenerating man) no longer runs: he sees what he lost, and decides to do something about it. He didn't answer Jack with words, but will now answer the viewer with actions. As the camera fades in we see Paul walking in central park, a mellow music is playing in the background, he reaches a stairway when two guys bump into him, and rudely pass on as if he didn't exist "Man, this was the worst movie I have ever seen!" Startled and aggravated Paul looks at them walk away, obviously contemplating doing something about it, but then decides to get down the stairs, and the music becomes increasingly sinister. This marks a turning point in the film – Paul will not be pushed over any more, and the 'movie' is now turning to the better. As he walks in the park he quickly notices a man stalking him, while acting as pray he reaches a promenade and allows himself to be caught up. Like the previously depicted mugger the man stands behind Paul, shouting "I'll kill you! Give me your money or I'll bust you up!" we see a close-up of the mugger, then of Paul's contemplative face. The music's rhythm grows faster. He turns – a gun in his hand. The mugger sees this, but then Paul fires, a sprout of blood flies and he is on the ground, writing in pain from a horrific stomach wound. Paul takes the sight in, and then runs away. We then see him entering his dark apartment, collapsing on the floor and shouting "oh Jesus", and yet, on the next morning, after showing his boss the designs he made, Aives notes "Tucson agreed with you. You look well!" to which Paul replies "I feel good". That very same night Paul walks in the street when he notices three muggers beating an elderly Asian man. He walks towards them, which attracts their attention. Armed with knives and crowbars the three spread to attack him, when he pulls his gun – shooting two muggers to death on the spot and hurting the third, which turns around and tries to run away. Paul takes a few steps forward, aims carefully, and shots the third mugger in the back, killing him. Now, before the above mentioned office scene, we are introduced to police inspector Frank Ochoa, who will attempt to apprehend Paul throughout the second half of the film. His appearance signals the transitioning of the film into its 'thriller' phase, and will be dealt with in only a cursory manner later on. Let us here focus on the closing phase of the transformation. The next time we see Paul, is when he and Jack are admitting Carol into a sanatorium, marking her complete succumbing to 21 trauma and last appearance in the film. Once outside the two talk and Jack laments that "if we had the brains to live in the country we wouldn't be here *….+ Mom and Carol would be safe at home waiting for us", finally reiterating his position that there is "nothing to do but cut and run". But now Paul has a different opinion: Paul: "What about the old American social custom of self-defense? If the police don't defend us, we ought to do it ourselves." Jack: "We're not pioneers anymore dad." Paul: "What are we, Jack?" Jack: "What do you mean?" Paul: "I mean, if we're not pioneers what have we become? What do you call people who, when faced with a situation of fear, do nothing about it, they just run and hide?" Jack: "Civilized?" Paul: "No…" This marks the completion of Paul's transformation – beginning as an inhibited aheroic "bleeding heart liberal", he has now emerged as a regenerated urban hunter of men who typifies the 'frontier ideology' that he came to uphold. Here resides the film's most extreme statement: Paul's acts of murderous violence are depicted as necessary and constitute a sort of 'savage justice' that satisfies his need for revenge, and have a positive regenerative effect – both personally and socially. Like the mythical 'wilderness' the 'mean streets' of the city are a dangerous environment haunted by 'savages', and like a cowboy with 'notches on his gun', or perhaps with the scalps of dead Indians on his belt, Paul stalks the streets and subway at night with the full intention of killing – a thing he does savagely yet controllably: always cool, nonplussed by the suffering he causes (we see several stomach wounds), when he takes out his gun it is to kill, never to incapacitate, and this even when he doesn't have to (after all he shoots a man in the back). He does these things because he is a product of the city's savagery – he is now an inverse image of the destructive force that catalyzed his formation, he has become a destroying avenger. While there is a substantial difference in the depiction of the 'freaks' that killed Paul's family and the muggers he hunts down – the first being maniacal sadists who enjoy mayhem and destruction, and the latter a bunch of 'lowlives' who are motivated by a combination of greed and dire need (poverty/drug abuse) and none of whom actually revels in violence – in his mind they are all one 22 and the same: his vengeance is construed as a struggle against a 'phenomenon', all the little details (i.e. human beings) that compose it are stripped of their individual identity, becoming only manifestations of a greater whole that has to be destroyed. Yet as 'dehumanizing' as this is, it is nonetheless construed as a form of 'defense'. Here we might argue that Paul intentionally puts himself in harm's way, thus rendering the fact that he never takes out his gun first superfluous, but what actually frames his actions is Jack's opinion that there is nothing to do 'but cut and run', relative to which Paul embodies the alternative – stay and fight, defend yourself and your own. Thus while acting as an individual, Paul's actions have a direct social consequence – in carrying out his vendetta, he is 'cleaning' the city and protecting society from the savages, which in turn galvanizes the citizens to follow something of his example: as Paul's actions become the center of an international media frenzy, 'common people' start to 'fight back' – an old African American lady wards off two muggers with her hand beg, a bunch of construction workers put a mugger in a coma and crime statistics fall by 40%. Thus like Harry Callahan, Paul is doing what is necessary, unafraid of becoming dirty in the process. Yet in difference to Callahan, who might draw satisfaction from getting the job done, enjoy violence to a certain degree and glory in the defeat of his enemy, Paul actually becomes happier as a result of killing: when he hosts Jack for dinner after killing two would be muggers at the subway, he is exuberant – showing off the new painting he bought, listening to loud joyous music, drinking a large cocktail, and, when questioned about his mood, retorts with "you want me to moan and groan for the rest of my life?". Here we might argue that this is the description of a psychotic serial-killer, or perhaps of a man suffering from a (post-) traumatic repetition-compulsion (which is an interpretation one might make in relation to Carol's narrative), yet not only is this depicted as a 'healthy' spiritual, physical and even sexual regeneration (as I have shown in my analysis of the transformation narrative), but it also constitutes one of the film's most radical statements: "It is the miserable story of the collapse of the white psyche. The white man's mind and soul are divided between these two things: innocence 23 and lust, the Spirit and Sensuality *….+ So the white man is divided against himself. He plays off one side of himself against the other side, till it is really a tale told by an idiot, and nauseating. Against this, one is forced to admire the stark, enduring figure of Deerslayer. He is neither spiritual nor sensual. He is a moralizer, but he always tries to moralize from actual experience, not from theory. He says: 'Hurt nothing unless you're forced to.' Yet he gets his deepest thrill of gratification *…+ when he puts a bullet through the heart of a beautiful buck *….+ 'Hurt nothing unless you're forced to.' And yet he lives by death, by killing the wild things of the air and earth. This is not good enough. But you have there the myth of the essential white America. All the other stuff, the love, the democracy, the floundering into lust, is a sort of by-play. The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer. It has never yet melted."4 The fact that the above text, taken from D. H. Lawrence's seminal reading of "Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking Novels" (in his "Studies in Classic American Literature" (c1923)), can serve as an apt description of Paul Kersey and his formation relative to Carol and Jack, shows just how radical "Death Wish" actually is. Using the traditional trope of "regeneration through violence", Paul – the son of a fatherhunter killed by a deer – transforms into a modern day version of Deerslayer, recovering the half-forgotten image of the archetypical hunter-hero of the American tradition. Like his 'enduring' mythical forefather, Paul tells the viewer about the 'journey of the integral American soul', contrasting, in the telling, the "nauseating" story of the collapse of the national psyche. This entire narrative and its consequences are necessary because Paul's assertion that the 'police don't defend us' is shown to be accurate: aside from being unable to solve the murder of his family, the police is depicted as dealing with inconsequential affairs (when Paul goes to the police station a man is complaining – "why can't you find my dog, he is essential to my income, he paints such wonderful pictures with his paws"), as attempting to 'clean' the streets only cosmetically (we 4 (Lawrence, 2003 (c1923), p. 399), an online version is available at the Virginia University American Studies Department's website, see: http://xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/LAWRENCE/lawrence.html. 24 see prostitutes arrested twice) and as lacking any deterring effect even when present in the streets (we see a police car before Paul encounters the first mugger, and hear police sirens when he enters Central Park). Yet, while this might appear like plain and simple incompetence, or perhaps insufficient capacities, we in fact learn that the powers that be don’t really want to change anything because that might endanger their position. In the second half of the film we are introduced to the character of Inspector Frank Ochoa – a fat middle-aged jaded heavy smoker, who appears to be a highly competent investigator, and runs an entire task force dedicated to apprehending "the vigilante". Using profiling and other investigative methods he is able to locate Paul within several days, and put him under surveillance. At this stage he is called to a meeting with both the mayor and chief of police, and is told that the crime statistics are down, which is a good thing, but that Kersey must be stopped alas the population take matters into its own hands, and by and by end the mayor’s and chief's careers. Yet because they do not want a martyr on their hands, Frank must force Kersey to stop by scaring him off – in effect letting a multiple murderer walk away. This is precisely what happens – Paul escapes the police surveillance, kills three more muggers, is seriously hurt in the process, and is apprehended by the police. Ochoa in turn gets a hold of Paul's gun, eliminates evidence, makes sure the officer at the scene tells the right story in exchange for a promotion, and confronts Paul at the hospital, making a deal with him – Kersey leaves the city permanently, and Ochoa throws the gun in the river, telling the press that the 'vigilante' is still out there. Here we ought to consider that 1974 was also a very bad year in American history. The Vietnam War, although officially over with the signing of the Paris accords a year earlier, was still very much present with the last combat troops still making their way home in what was now clearly seen as America's first defeat (Saigon will fall a year later, symbolizing the futility of the war); Richard Nixon was bogged down by the Watergate Scandal, which signaled the high water mark of a decade full of government conspiracies, illegal activities and disinformation; the economic recession was now clearly manifest with the highest unemployment since the "great depression" of the latter 1920s-mid 1930s; and last, but certainly for our 25 purposes not least, was the worst crime wave since the prohibition – created, in part, by the combination of the massive unemployment with the influx of washed out, combat trained, post-traumatic Vietnam veterans (PTSD was called PostVietnam Syndrome at the time), and the sharp increase in the number of hard drug users (especially heroine). If understood against this background, "Death Wish" contains an explosive social/political statement: the appearance of the savage white man-hunter in a narrative that contrasts his 'regeneration through violence' with trauma, at a time when an entire generation of young American men who fought in the war were beginning to be perceived as traumatized due to their savage, genocidal action, is extremely reactionary. This in turn is narrativized in a manner that signifies 'liberalism' as the effeminate ailment of the American spirit and at the same time chauvinistically posits women as fragile, passive, pacifistic and helpless – although maternal instincts are awarded a certain degree of strength (Joanna attempts to defend her daughter). Yet it is in no way 'pro-republican' in either the partisan or governmental sense – the institutional-political framework appears to be completely corrupt and ineffectual, replete with conspiracies whose purpose is to preserve power even if this amounts to ignoring the law and lying to the public. Both the social body and the individual are left exposed: on the macro level society is succumbing to a 'degenerative' illness, on the micro level, the individual is left to fend alone in a dog eat dog world. What is required is drastic and radical action. Conclusion In my opinion one cannot genuinely speak about a 'general' or universal relation between rage, revenge and justice. All pertain to emotions, but also to abstract concepts, histories, theologies, systems of ethics, social valuations and norms, class distinctions, and in general to very wide array of cultural articulations and modalities. This is not to say that a work of art, or for that matter a product of the 'cultural industry', does not possess a universal message, it certainly does – the viewer is invited to share the film's language, its cultural and emotional landscape 26 and to hear and see its story, from which he/she may learn something about a certain range of human possibilities. In this paper I have dealt with two Hollywood 'action' films that were made in roughly the same tumultuous period. Yet, albeit their proximity, the two diverge in their depiction, valuation and linking of rage, revenge and justice, and in the way they use these to constitute a social/political message. More importantly, the range of formal, stylistic and narrative differences between the two, indicates just how rich and complex the conception of these elements can be, even within a single tradition. Works Cited Freud, S. (1961). Beyond the Pleasure Principle. (J. Strachey, Trans.) London & New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Lawrence, D. H. (2003 (c1923)). Studies in Classic American Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Slotkin, R. (1973). Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860. Middletown, Connecticut, United States: Wesleyan University Press. Slotkin, R. (1992). Gunfight Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America. New York: Macmillan Publishing Company. 27