Clint Eastwood and the problem of biography
In the opening of his book Clint: The Man and the Movies, Shawn Levy argues that a truly compelling biography should present the facts without imposing moral judgment. He asserts that it’s entirely possible for a book to commend a man’s accomplishments and character, while also acknowledging his shortcomings, even in his work.
This serves as a shrewd disclaimer: Clint Eastwood, who is now 95, is a challenging subject to tackle in a biography. The very aspects that make him an intriguing figure – his numerous iconic roles, his extensive body of work, his conservative political beliefs, allegations of sexual misconduct, his reputed toughness, his business savvy, and his enduring career – also render him a captivating yet precarious subject for biographical exploration.
The book reveals a darker, less publicized side of Eastwood’s character, and the focus on his films often uncomfortably juxtaposes with personal incidents involving violence, infidelity, spitefulness, and even forced sterilization (of one of his most notable partners).
The story of Eastwood’s life and career isn’t inherently dramatic. Born into a middle-class family in California, he worked hard, experienced occasional good fortune, entered the film industry, and has remained active in it for over six decades. Levy beautifully captures the prevalence of westerns in postwar America and skillfully reviews Eastwood’s creative journey, highlighting the significance of even his less popular films.
Levy traces Eastwood’s practical approach to filmmaking back to his time as the star of the TV series Rawhide, which served as his “film school.” He discusses the complex reception of the 1971 film Dirty Harry, stating, “The film is many things, but above all, even its harshest critics concede, it’s an effective film. If it’s propaganda, it’s entertaining propaganda. If it’s sadism, it’s sugar-coated sadism.”
Levy also acknowledges the impact of Eastwood’s “masterpiece”, the 1992 film Unforgiven: “Is it a perfect film? Perhaps not. But its flaws stem from certain choices, not errors, and therefore it’s a matter of taste, not ability.”
“Thorough, powerful, and true.” This book unveils a darker, more private aspect of Eastwood’s persona, where his on-screen roles often starkly contrast with personal episodes of violence, infidelity, spitefulness, and even forced sterilization, allegedly involving one of his most notable partners.
Eastwood is the kind of man who necessitates the caveat “as far as we know” when discussing his eight children with six different women. He’s the man who ran for and won a municipal election in his adopted home of Carmel, California, simply because the zoning commission denied his request to expand his offices.
He’s the man who reportedly got at least four directors, including Blake Edwards, fired from the films he was acting in, sometimes replacing them with himself.
He’s the man who drove his car into a sedan parked in a spot clearly reserved for him. According to Sondra Locke, an actress and his longtime partner, Eastwood persuaded her to undergo sterilization despite her desire to have children, only to later father several children with various women. (Levy, the author, notes that Eastwood “categorically denied influencing her decisions about her ‘reproductive choices'”.)
While there are many ways to approach the genre of biography, this book represents the conventional form, striving for an exhaustive and detailed evaluation. Perhaps the genre itself is due for an existential overhaul. As we continue to demystify and hold accountable these brilliant but flawed artists and creators, works documenting their personal lives should aim to address these aspects in a more constructive and meaningful manner.
Maybe it’s time to discard the traditional model and replace it with smaller fragments of life – separate books that explore a person’s influences, personal life, or psychology. Perhaps none of us are truly capable of comprehending and articulating the entirety of another person’s existence. Maybe it’s high time we stopped pretending otherwise.
From The Washington Post
