There's something of a throwaway line in Gran Torino, when Walt Kowalski says to Thao, the Asian kid next door who has come to perform yard services as reparation for trying to steal his car, "I take care of my own stuff" (I may be paraphrasing). And Walt does basically stick to what he says, while not cynically deflecting Thao's services, getting him to do work instead for the house across the street which is falling into disrepair.
Walt takes clear pleasure in the fact that the Gran Torino he owns had the steering column installed by none other than himself when he worked on the assembly line for Ford, back in the days when the automobile manufacturing industry was a real staple of the American economy.
He has a way of taking matters into his own hands, you might say. Walt embodies the quintessential American quality of self-reliance and independence. But he also believes in serving his neighbours, another quintessential American quality, and one which goes hand in hand with self-reliance. For self-reliance renders the services one proffers that much more from a center of freedom, making service of neighbour that much more desirable. As opposed to coming from a sense of slavish "obligation", the service to neighbour only renders one more free.
The film by Clint Eastwood is a parabolic fable that gives resonating force to the cruciformed, life-giving choice as the only choice which breaks the cycles of violence that are perpetuated from generation to generation (that perpetuation being a near constant in Eastwood's themes). This is not Dirty Harry with a pacifist ending. It is not Walt Kowalski embracing a new and unfamiliar era that transcends the bounds of race and prejudice.
This film has nothing to do with racial issues. It is not about the final passing away of the old American generation, giving way to a streamlined, global-conscious, cursor-pushing, borderless, tech generation. The film is rather about the adamantine preservation, beyond anything merely 'generational', of that old American generation and the values it represents, through Walt's final decision. His old world values and heart are defiantly preserved into the present. And they are passed on to the Asian kid; the Zipperhead; the Gook.
He gives life, and the representation of good values as symbolized by the Gran Torino, to Thao with the totality that comes only from self-gift, wanton self sacrifice. Not because he wants his values preserved but because he doesn't want Thao to go down the road he foresees if he were to do what vengeance dictates. It is a drastic scenario in which Walt thinks of Thao and his sister and their family and their future lives rather than his own, and comes to the tough conclusion of what he must do to really ensure it without any action of his tainting their futures.
This is incomparably more than what those could ever give to Thao, those who would make sure, by every care, never to offend him by calling him a Gook.
I'm baffled at how completely so many critics and reviewers missed the point of Gran Torino. Here in this film we see that self-reliance, independence within freedom, service of neighbour, and final crucifixion - while each is a different rung on the ladder of ascendancy - are not opposed to one another. Far from it, each one can act like a rung leading to the next in a process we might call conversion.
I do have issues with the film and they are not aesthetic ones for the most part. I'm fine with the film's so-called awkwardness and clunkiness and "pedestrian cinematography" and the sometimes phony way in which characters speak. My issues with the film have to do with the sheer number of times blasphemy occurs, including from the plucky priest, Father Janovich (though the priest does seem to speak the Lord's name with some kind of reverence while taking it in vain). But more than that, I was especially unsettled (in a way that I also did not find it believable) by Walt's false confession.
I get that he was making confession to please the wishes of his deceased wife, though it isn't made explicit (which in itself is a sort of abuse of the sacrament). And I understand that he seems to "finish up" his confession to Thao when he tells him what he did not tell the priest; the thing that haunts his life and conscience (though if this is the case, it by no means constitutes legitimate confession and absolution). Note that after Walt makes his "confession" to the priest with the screen between them, he tells this as-yet-undisclosed secret to Thao with the metal screen door between them both, acting like a grate in a confessional.
The film is parabolic and I can see Thao's character acting like a stand-in for a priest, but the fact is, the film shows a rather shallow regard for the sacrament of confession. I realize also that having a Great Big Confession scene where Walt unburdens everything to the priest could easily become melodramatic. Eastwood could have directed it so that the confession to the priest was not heard; we see him starting the confession and facial gestures in the dark and so forth, the priest's changing, reacting expressions, then the final absolution. Then later, Walt telling Thao about what he's being carrying around…
And the notes struck by the Father Janovich, while being a solid character, seemed just a bit too one dimensional and out of touch, even patronizing. That a priest, and a very Boston-looking one at that, would initially order a coke in a bar is not believable. After being pressed by Walt to order something alcoholic, Father Janovich orders a gin and tonic. Yeah, right.
But with Eastwood there is always a construction of story that at least pulls through with its intents. Eastwood is a good director because he knuckles down with the thread of his story - and within that thread only does he seek his revelations, the exploration of his themes. It's the way he handles the theme so nimbly within the regular stream of his storylines. There are moments in Unforgiven and A Perfect World, for instance, where the theme suddenly sparkles out clear and resounding, without affectation.
As here, in the symbolism of the Gran Torino. The car itself represents, at least in part, the final reach over the vestige pinnacle of automobile stylization, just when all cars were beginning to become humdrum boxes. The car is Walt's treasure; an 'heirloom' that he is affiliated with through its making and not just something bought at the end of the line. He passes it on, through his own crucifixion, to Thao together with the values that went into making the car. As the symbolic heart of the fable, a symbol from back when modernity was far advanced in age and yet young compared to the rapid deterioration about to set in, it's kind of ingenious and very effortless; no commentary necessary.
Here is a film about the wrenching, interior violence of love; more violent than kicking the tar out of bad guys; so violent it looks superficially like suicide. And the film goes to it in its own, unparsed, Clint Eastwoodish way.
A happy Fourth of July to my American readers.
