Sherman's March (Ross McElwee, 1986)
Posted: Sat Jan 17, 2009 1:01 am
Since domino was interested in expressing his negative opinion of the film (my number 2 for the 80s), and since it rated respectably on the final list so doesn't exactly qualify as a neglected darling, we can discuss it over here.
So why is this my favourite American film of the 1980s?
It's a sentimental favourite, it's true. I first saw it in the late 80s and somehow managed to see it semi-regularly ever since. By now, it might just be the film I've rewatched the most times (maybe 7 or 8).
The number one reason for my high placing of it is sort of unarguable: it's one of the funniest films I've ever seen, and it continues to be just as funny on each revisit, maybe because the humour is character-based and situational rather than tied to specific gags. If you're not laughing, it's not my fault and no amount of debate is going to make you do so.
But the film is much, much more than that. Like The Thin Blue Line (also in my top ten), McElwee's film has been hugely influential on American documentary in the ensuing decades, even though that influence has often been deleterious. Being influential is neither here nor there when it comes to assessing a film's worth for good or ill, and it's hardly McElwee's responsibility if lesser and lazier filmmakers have turned his innovations into schtick.
What is important to understand about this film's structural conceit is how perfectly matched it is to its deeper concerns. Sherman's March is one of the best films about the interaction of the personal and the political in the 1980s era of nuclear dread, and McElwee's form - a historical documentary about a regional apocalypse that is continually interrupted and subverted by the filmmaker's abortive present-tense romantic encounters - allows him to shuttle deftly back and forth between the big and little pictures. We are not expected to take the film's conceit seriously (he didn't really set out to make the Sherman documentary and nothing else), just as we're not expected to read Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting as authentic art history, but we need to buy into it in order to lap up the pleasures it facilitates. The same thing goes for his sad sack persona, which is at least more nuanced and edifying (and funnier) than Woody Allen's. He adopts that pose to give the women he encounters something to play off without diverting our attention from them.
The women he encounters are unequivocally the stars of the film. If you can only see irony and satire in their depiction, you're not going with the spirit of the film. Odd and singular as some of the women appear, they're the life-force that drive the film, and they exist in counterpoint to McElwee's passive protagonist, who's inspired by them all in different ways. Charleen Swansea is a great case in point. Her relentless matchmaking is an exquisite comic turn and might appear reductive, but she's playing to Ross's camera and Ross's respect for her (shading, understandably, into awe and fear) is crucial. We only get to see a couple of sides of Charleen in this film, but when you add in her many other dimensions that McElwee has explored and documented in other films, she becomes truly one of the most complex and compelling characters in American movies. Even Pat, whose unintentionally hilarious (or is it really so unintentional?) science fiction screenplay provides one of the film's most surreal moments, is admired for her drive and ambition. When she leaves the film, it's clear that she's been using Ross just as much as he's been using her (they're both getting a film out of it). The other women all exhibit an enviable commitment to their faith, politics and / or careers, and McElwee respects and documents the work they do (a rare thing in Hollywood films of any era), with prospective relationships in most cases decidedly secondary to those women's central concerns (a virtually unthinkable perspective in mainstream or indie American cinema, except as pathology).
It's a wonderful picture of the American South in the 1980s, and like all of McElwee's diary films, the question of race is never far from the surface, even if, in this film, it's not explicitly addressed. The moment in which the black mechanic makes that unexpected connection between his daughter and McElwee's mother is one of the rawest and most beautiful displays of emotion I've ever seen on film, and it just gets richer and deeper the more I see of McElwee's work - there's nothing really in Sherman's March to suggest just how difficult that moment must have been for Ross, given his feelings about his mother's death, but the moment still hits you between the eyes. The change in tone, gaze and expression when the mechanic says the fateful word is something I've never seen anywhere else on film (and it's rare enough in real life: the sudden dropping of a backdrop to reveal a different reality beyond it), and then it's casually turned back on the filmmaker to create an even more singular emotional twist.
Sherman's March captures the mood of nuclear dread we lived through in the 80s better than any other film, simply because it's not about massive disasters, superpower politics or souped-up menaces, but about how ordinary people have simply, unquestioningly reorganised their lives around the expectation of global catastrophe. Domestic fallout shelters and visual petitions may seem quaint and futile now, but they were common enough responses to supremely irrational and barely imaginable threats. McElwee doesn't need to address the consequences of a nuclear holocaust head-on and risk sinking in a swamp of didacticism, because he has the Sherman material through which that material can be refracted. Thus several women in the film have the oddly doubled role of reporting back from a post-apocalyptic America, which evokes for me another indelible detail from the film: the defiant swish of the old woman's head when she condemns warmongerers everywhere with a dismissive "death and destruction."
What else? It's a great narrative film: an emotional and physical journey presented as a deceptively rambling picaresque (in fact, there's a daunting thematic unity to all of the episodes, however far they might seem to stray from the through-line), but it's also got that ingenious multifaceted Chinese box structure. It simultaneously succeeds as a series of character studies, a comedy (the Burt Reynolds subplot is beautifully incongruous and all but thrown away - when the capper comes it's delightfully unexpected), a diary film (and a parody of one) and, against all the odds and in the crevices of the rest of the film, a documentary on Sherman's March to the Sea.
For those who did like this film, don't miss Time Indefinite when considering your 90s lists. It's a much darker and more personal film: really magnificent stuff.
So why is this my favourite American film of the 1980s?
It's a sentimental favourite, it's true. I first saw it in the late 80s and somehow managed to see it semi-regularly ever since. By now, it might just be the film I've rewatched the most times (maybe 7 or 8).
The number one reason for my high placing of it is sort of unarguable: it's one of the funniest films I've ever seen, and it continues to be just as funny on each revisit, maybe because the humour is character-based and situational rather than tied to specific gags. If you're not laughing, it's not my fault and no amount of debate is going to make you do so.
But the film is much, much more than that. Like The Thin Blue Line (also in my top ten), McElwee's film has been hugely influential on American documentary in the ensuing decades, even though that influence has often been deleterious. Being influential is neither here nor there when it comes to assessing a film's worth for good or ill, and it's hardly McElwee's responsibility if lesser and lazier filmmakers have turned his innovations into schtick.
What is important to understand about this film's structural conceit is how perfectly matched it is to its deeper concerns. Sherman's March is one of the best films about the interaction of the personal and the political in the 1980s era of nuclear dread, and McElwee's form - a historical documentary about a regional apocalypse that is continually interrupted and subverted by the filmmaker's abortive present-tense romantic encounters - allows him to shuttle deftly back and forth between the big and little pictures. We are not expected to take the film's conceit seriously (he didn't really set out to make the Sherman documentary and nothing else), just as we're not expected to read Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting as authentic art history, but we need to buy into it in order to lap up the pleasures it facilitates. The same thing goes for his sad sack persona, which is at least more nuanced and edifying (and funnier) than Woody Allen's. He adopts that pose to give the women he encounters something to play off without diverting our attention from them.
The women he encounters are unequivocally the stars of the film. If you can only see irony and satire in their depiction, you're not going with the spirit of the film. Odd and singular as some of the women appear, they're the life-force that drive the film, and they exist in counterpoint to McElwee's passive protagonist, who's inspired by them all in different ways. Charleen Swansea is a great case in point. Her relentless matchmaking is an exquisite comic turn and might appear reductive, but she's playing to Ross's camera and Ross's respect for her (shading, understandably, into awe and fear) is crucial. We only get to see a couple of sides of Charleen in this film, but when you add in her many other dimensions that McElwee has explored and documented in other films, she becomes truly one of the most complex and compelling characters in American movies. Even Pat, whose unintentionally hilarious (or is it really so unintentional?) science fiction screenplay provides one of the film's most surreal moments, is admired for her drive and ambition. When she leaves the film, it's clear that she's been using Ross just as much as he's been using her (they're both getting a film out of it). The other women all exhibit an enviable commitment to their faith, politics and / or careers, and McElwee respects and documents the work they do (a rare thing in Hollywood films of any era), with prospective relationships in most cases decidedly secondary to those women's central concerns (a virtually unthinkable perspective in mainstream or indie American cinema, except as pathology).
It's a wonderful picture of the American South in the 1980s, and like all of McElwee's diary films, the question of race is never far from the surface, even if, in this film, it's not explicitly addressed. The moment in which the black mechanic makes that unexpected connection between his daughter and McElwee's mother is one of the rawest and most beautiful displays of emotion I've ever seen on film, and it just gets richer and deeper the more I see of McElwee's work - there's nothing really in Sherman's March to suggest just how difficult that moment must have been for Ross, given his feelings about his mother's death, but the moment still hits you between the eyes. The change in tone, gaze and expression when the mechanic says the fateful word is something I've never seen anywhere else on film (and it's rare enough in real life: the sudden dropping of a backdrop to reveal a different reality beyond it), and then it's casually turned back on the filmmaker to create an even more singular emotional twist.
Sherman's March captures the mood of nuclear dread we lived through in the 80s better than any other film, simply because it's not about massive disasters, superpower politics or souped-up menaces, but about how ordinary people have simply, unquestioningly reorganised their lives around the expectation of global catastrophe. Domestic fallout shelters and visual petitions may seem quaint and futile now, but they were common enough responses to supremely irrational and barely imaginable threats. McElwee doesn't need to address the consequences of a nuclear holocaust head-on and risk sinking in a swamp of didacticism, because he has the Sherman material through which that material can be refracted. Thus several women in the film have the oddly doubled role of reporting back from a post-apocalyptic America, which evokes for me another indelible detail from the film: the defiant swish of the old woman's head when she condemns warmongerers everywhere with a dismissive "death and destruction."
What else? It's a great narrative film: an emotional and physical journey presented as a deceptively rambling picaresque (in fact, there's a daunting thematic unity to all of the episodes, however far they might seem to stray from the through-line), but it's also got that ingenious multifaceted Chinese box structure. It simultaneously succeeds as a series of character studies, a comedy (the Burt Reynolds subplot is beautifully incongruous and all but thrown away - when the capper comes it's delightfully unexpected), a diary film (and a parody of one) and, against all the odds and in the crevices of the rest of the film, a documentary on Sherman's March to the Sea.
For those who did like this film, don't miss Time Indefinite when considering your 90s lists. It's a much darker and more personal film: really magnificent stuff.