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The circumstances of the death of actor Gene Hackman, who died at the age of ninety-five, remain unclear. On February 26, his body was found in his home in Santa Fe, as was the body of his wife Betsy Arakawa. It is assumed that both left this world more than a week ago. The possibility of foul play has not been completely ruled out, as the front door of the house was unlocked.
It’s not entirely appropriate that an air of mystery should surround the last phase of Hackman’s life. Although his screen characters could be frightening, aggressive, or driven by repressed passions, the actor himself was not enigmatic. He was solid and grounded, even when his characters were unsympathetic, and that solidity was the basis of his appeal. Theatergoers like to claim that there is no substitute for live performance, but sometimes cinema can present someone who seems as real and tangible. That was Hackman. We believed in his physicality, imposing and compelling as it was, and in his blood that was surging.
Casting directors turned to Hackman when they needed an antagonist, and understandably so. The idea that men in high places might be tempted, even doomed, to show their ugly side was all too plausible in Hackman’s hands. As the Secretary of Defense in No Way Out (1987) and, a decade later, as the President of the United States in Imperium, he engaged in acts of violence against women that resulted in their deaths. His sinister villains, like Lex Luthor in Superman (1978), were too vivid not to leave a lasting menace in their wake. Far more powerful, and perhaps more lasting, were Hackman’s portrayals of sons of bitches: those who wage private wars in an attempt to keep the peace. Among them, of course, are Jimmy (Popeye) Doyle in The French Connection (1971) and French Connection II (1975); FBI Agent Anderson in Mississippi Burning (1988); and Sheriff Daggett, aka Little Bill, in Unforgiven (1992). Needless to say, there’s nothing small about Bill, except perhaps his appreciation of humanity. When accused of assaulting an innocent man, he replies, “Innocent? Innocent of what?”
It’s a perfect Hackman line. Neither paranoid nor purely cynical, it springs from a brutal realism that is gripping. It’s an attitude, you might argue, that’s perfect for the Wild West that ruthless men like Daggett once dared to tame; but you could easily imagine his words being spoken backstage at the House Un-American Activities Committee – or, for that matter, in Argentina during the Dirty War, or in response to Alexei Navalny’s incredulous stare. One of the great things about Hackman is that his round, gravelly voice has remained constant even as the moral conditions have changed. Anderson in Mississippi Burning is no less of a bastard than Daggett, despite being on the side of truth, and the image of Anderson confronting racist rednecks in their illegal bar, grabbing the worst offender by the crotch, would send Lex Luthor running for cover. The only way to tell right from wrong in that setting is that the good guy has a redder neck.
If I had to pick a precedent for this scene, it would be The Public Enemy (1931), in which James Cagney, as an ambitious hoodlum, raids a local bar that serves the wrong kind of beer. Hackman has always cited Cagney as one of his inspirations—“Everything he did had life,” he said in an interview—and the verve with which Cagney runs into a bar, intent on causing trouble and enjoying his own show, fuels Hackman’s confident moves. Neither actor was afraid to show off his fun (there’s no better way to get an audience on your side, no matter what mischief you’re up to), and it was from Cagney that Hackman learned the most powerful weapon in his arsenal: his smile. That smile was ten times more deadly than his snarl, and I miss it already.
Where to look for smiles in Hackman’s work? Almost everywhere, even in quiet moments. Try Target (1985), the third and perhaps least important of the films Hackman made under Arthur Penn, after Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Night Moves (1975). At one point, playing former CIA agent Walter Lloyd, Hackman pulls a gun on the hapless agent sent to protect him and his family. Walter laughs softly and tells him what to do: “Throw away the rest of your life. If I see you again, I’ll never see you again.” It’s a sweet noir line, but it’s the smile that gives it its grace.
Sourse: newyorker.com
