The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

When you first see Robert Ford in this movie, he is a shuffling, little man with a ragged stove-top hat. He makes his acquaintances in a halting, shy manner with glazed eyes that shift away lazily and the smile of a simpleton. Your first reaction will be more disgust then pity. So too, is the reaction of Jesse Jame's older brother, who shoves the 19 year old away with a six shooter in the opening scenes.

The film is narrated as if from a book, with eloquence added to by a very apt musical score. Sad, foreboding fiddles provide for a tale cold and unhappy. And if I could choose three adjectives to describe the movie I would choose dream-like, tense, and sad.

It was very hard for me to find empathy with any of the characters, from the aforementioned despicable, childish Robert Ford, to Brad Pitt's Jesse James or any of the other characters. The film's most charismatic character, womanizing poet Dick Little, is little more than a footnote I felt was put in to add more color to the drab gray canvas painted by characters, narrative, and score.
Yet the slow moving, drab atmosphere created takes on a very dream-like quality that I have not witnessed in films in my recent recollection. The language, whether accurate to 1881 or not, is a dash of Southern drawal sparkled with eloquence. Even the rhubes and hillfolk that make up the James Gang speak beautifully. I had to use English subtitles often enough, despite my Southern roots (sorry, Dad).

Another aspect that adds to the dream-like feel are the shots. The camera work is absolutely brilliant and often times both ghostly and beautiful. The first train robbery comes to my mind, as well as icy fields and sepia, photograph like scenes. Some scenes the edges of the screen are blurred, and this only serves to match the hazy reality we are given.

Indeed, relationships between characters, conversations, and intentions are all very....weird. The movie gives you a world where you cannot easily trust anyone, and this must have the intention: as Jesse James himself struggles with paranoia and a prophetic vision of his eventual betrayal he cannot escape even as he lays out preemptive vengeance. Even the one true "gun battle" of the movie is unreal, with pauses in the action that seem impossible as the 2 former friends fire at each other at near point blank range.

The tension is there when Brad Pitt is there; the narrator begins the movie with the line "Rooms seemed hotter when he [Jesse] was in them...rains fell straighter...sounds were amplified. Pitt is truly an intimidating presence in the movie. The lack of trust between the members of the gang and each other, between them and Jesse, is there in nearly every single scene. Conversations are awkward, halting, and yes visibly tense. It adds to the slow pace of the movie, the intensity, the dream like nature. I could not remember dialogue and character interaction like this in other films. Ironically, these characters appear very, very realistic in their mannerisms. The acting is top notch, every conversation is perfectly imperfect, and not once did I find anything corny in the movie.

Finally, the movie ends not with a bang, but predictably like the last few drops of a sand in an hourglass. We know Jesse will be killed, and Robert Ford not glorified but made a pathetic, hated, caricature. In the end I finally learned to empathize with the sad man, who wanted something of glory alongside his boyhood hero, only to find more rejection and more reminders of his incapabilities.

Can you handle such slow paced movie style? Imagine the movie like a Sunday afternoon, lazy and drawn out, with meandering convo now and then. I liked the movie, I think it stands out. The movie as a whole is fuzzy and a bit perplexing. I do not think it gives us a very clear portrait of the famous outlaw, his men, or even of his killer. But perhaps that's the point. Legends are part truth, part rumor, and there is no such thing as ultimate truth in history. Whoever wins gets to write it, and sometimes it's not even clear who the winners are.

When the good ones go, you feel it.

The past couple of weeks has been a bit of a transformation in Shanghai life for me (more on this in another post). The short of it is I am more happy here in Shanghai than I have been in a long, long time.

Part of it is working full time instead of bumming full time, another part is that the weather is getting warmer. Yet another part is that the friends I have here are not just going out, clubbing buddies. They are people I feel i can talk to, chill out with, and who I care about.

Last thursday one of my faves, I call him Randolph, came back from Singapore for a visit. He has been staying at our house. His energy, passion, and good nature really made me realize how much I liked him. Our interests are very similar. Back during my first semester at Jiao Tong, we had a lot of moments where we shocked each other because of this. Our styles couldn't be more different, he's loud, dyed, and will start cursing at you once he gets your name. I'm quiet, diplomatic, and am uncomfortable crossing many boundaries with people I don't really know. He is very Chinese/Singaporean (duh): career driven, ambitious, and with a desire to better himself. He once twisted his face when i talked about my future dreams for myself.

"I could see myself on a farm. Maybe a remote area where I could write. Either of those, or some kind of work involving helping people..." I had said semi-absentmindedly. His sharp reply came as a snap:

"Fucking American! Too much time spent in your idealistic bubble dreaming of bullshit."


Despite our different opinions on success and value, I felt a kinship with him that is hard to find. We shared Warhammer, Fallout, martial arts, physical training (to the point we and KC formed the Spartans), dark and twisted stuff (no not S&M), and a bunch of other nerdy/weird hobbies.

His time spent with us makes me wish he was back in Shanghai permanently; he is a very good friend who gets pleasures out of the simple things. I do not know what exactly he is doing back in Singapore, but I know he is hard working and this little, simple vacation back here in Shanghai has been great for him.

The night before he left, our good friend K. Masters, who has lived in Shanghai for almost 3 years, announced he had decided to go back to the Boston and study music production. He had thought long and hard about his decision, and told us it had come like an ephiphany to him the night before. He said that everything was clear for him, and that for the first time in months he was excited about moving forward with his life, and getting out of the endless swirl that Shanghai all too often becomes for expats.

While congratulations were on all of our lips, the feeling in the room was palpabally sad. We had been expecting him to maybe make the choice to go back home to the States, but when it comes it is hard to take. K. Masters is one of the nicest guys I've ever met, maybe even nicer than me. He has a beautiful, loving girlfriend, a great knowledge of drinking games, and a Wii. I am glad to have met him and wished he could stay. But no friend has the right to stand in the way of someone's goals and passions. I think we spend enough time searching for ourselves in these years, wondering where our potential should go or why the hell we studied international relations. He has found his, and I'm happy for him.

When you come to Shanghai, you meet a lot of friends. You party, you make new friends. You go to bars, to class, to dinners, you make more friends. Then they leave, and you are shellshocked a little. This happens a few times and you become wary of newcomers. You find a job, hang out with those who have chosen Shanghai for the medium-long term, and become close to them. They become more than drinking buddies or hunting parties or All-u-can-Eat Japanese comrades in arms. You start to feel like Shanghai is your home.

And then they leave, too.

In this city where stasis is a virtual impossibility for us, we all wonder regularly: "What am I doing here?"