There is talk that
Gran Torino is Clint Eastwood’s final acting role. While I’ll believe that when the man (god forbid) dies, I will say it would be an unforgettable role to end a career on. Somehow, Eastwood found a way to direct a film where he plays a bitter, violent, and unapologetically bigoted old man who can barely form one sentence void of profanity or racial slurs, and then is still able to pull off—brilliantly—having that same man die in the unmistakable shape of a cross at the end of the movie.
Gran Torino is cinema—that strange experience of pleasure and unsettlement, escapism and confrontation with reality—at its absolute best.
The story was engaging, and one that reflected reality—slightly characterized so that it would be easier for audiences to understand. An older man, Walt Kowalski, disconnected from his children. Their misguided efforts to try and move him into a retirement home, purchasing him a telephone with extra large numbers, a “gopher” for picking up items and pulling them off shelves so Walt doesn’t strain himself. The children’s busy lives that don’t allow them time to visit their father. The generational disconnect between Walt and his wild-clothes-wearing, disrespectful grandchildren. It was irritating, but well done. The audience was understanding the situation from Walt’s perspective. (Literally, at times—the camera angle represented Walt’s vision.)
Then Walt, a veteran of the Korean War, begins to develop an unlikely friendship with the Hmong family next door. First through an older daughter, Bee, then with the son, Thao, who becomes the target for a local gang of Hmongs.
Audiences are meant to understand right from the beginning of the movie that in some way, as unlikely as it seems, Walt and Thao are connected. Yes, Walt is old, American, and racist, as opposed to Thao, who is young, Hmong, and painfully shy. But in the early scenes of the movie, we’re shown through two juxtaposed scenes that there is still a similarity.
The scenes are from the funeral at Walt’s house, and a birth celebration in the Hmong house next door. We are shown Walt stepping outside to be alone, and then we see Thao removing himself from the crowd. So while we may not see any overt links between the two in personality or lifestyle, there is a connection. Death and birth. One is at the end of his life, the other is at the beginning. And, the two characters fill a void in each others lives. Thao has no father. Walt’s sons are not a meaningful part of his life.
This is not the only time Eastwood uses camera shots to add to his story. Towards the end of the movie, Walt decides its time to honor his late wife’s request, and go to confession. Although by that point audiences know Walt was part of some terrible things in the war (hacking bodies up with shovels, piling bodies up for sandbags), he doesn’t deliver the confession we expect. In fact, what Walt says seems almost trivial. Through the confessional screen, Walt said he regretted not being a better father to his sons. Very nice, Walt—but what about the women and children you hacked to death in the war?
Before Walt goes to execute his revenge on the Hmong gang, he locks Thao in his basement to keep him safe. Walt is preparing to make a larger sacrifice than Thao, or the audience, is prepared for—and it’s in that scene that Walt makes his second, more poignant confession. Between Walt and Thao is a metal screen to keep Thao in the basement, and as Thao is begging Walt to let him go with him, the camera is always viewing the character’s faces through the screen, as in a confessional. This is the confession we were waiting for, Walt explaining to Thao that killing is something “…you don’t want…on your soul.”
The camera communicates again when—as I mentioned—Walt’s ultimate sacrifice leaves him dead on a lawn in the shape of a cross—a sacrifice that liberates Tao and his family.
Gran Torino is a complicated, brilliantly done film. There’s a lot I simply don’t have time to write about—the humor, the violence, Walt’s relationship with the catholic priest—it’s all weaved together seamlessly. Nothing is ever forced or dumbed-down for audiences. Eastwood, in his directorial authority, never felt the need to beat us over the head with the fact that Walt loved his deceased wife. We are spared painful flashbacks. No one ever says, “Walt, you have lung cancer. And six months to live.” We see Walt smoke. We see Walt cough up blood. That’s enough.
The racism and violence is inarguably disturbing. But Walt is a flawed man, and the film reflects that. It’s his journey toward redemption that puts his words and actions in perspective, and ultimately justifies their inclusion in the film.
