BUFFALO BILL AND THE INDIANS, OR SITTING BULL’S HISTORY LESSON (1976), dir. Robert Altman

It is said the great ones make what they do look easy. Yet here is a movie about two legendary men of their time – one a white cowboy, the other a Native American chief – in which the saying only seems half true. “Buffalo Bill” shows the hard work that its main character, William Cody, goes through to maintain his image as the archetypal frontiersman, as well as the frustrations this would-be master of animals and killer of Injuns experiences with Sitting Bull, who conjures a near-mystical aura through hardly any labor at all.

There really was a “Buffalo Bill” Cody, a former soldier and Pony Express rider who later starred in the most popular traveling show in the world. Wild West-themed, it featured a variety of skilled performers who did gun tricks and performed stunts on horseback, as well as actors who re-enacted events such as General Custer’s last stand, in which Cody himself appeared as the doomed general. The movie picks up during the troupe’s heyday, around the same time as what ostensibly appears to be a show business coup: the signing on of Sitting Bull, the former Sioux leader.

Federal marshals begrudgingly deliver the chief to Cody and his handlers, who already envision him appearing in a re-enactment of the Battle of the Little Bighorn. But Sitting Bull, who joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West because of a vision telling him he would meet President Grover Cleveland, refuses to participate in their version of the event, in which Custer’s men would be shown massacred. Instead, he demands the re-enactment show the Native Americans being slaughtered, a suggestion Cody flat-out refuses. The show considers firing Sitting Bull, but when a key cast member threatens to walk out as well, Cody capitulates; nevertheless, the incident spurs a battle of wills between the two legends that lasts the entire movie.

“Buffalo Bill” was directed by Robert Altman, and like many of that filmmaker’s works, it’s so many things in one: an ensemble film, a drama with comedic elements, a behind-the-scenes look at a particular corner of show business. But there’s also something edgy and modern about Altman and Alan Rudolph’s screenplay, and one’s appreciation of the overall movie will likely depend on taking to their vision. To them, William Cody – who was a big star before the age of television – is like some kind of 70’s show business icon: handsome and larger-than-life in person (if slightly shorter than one might have expected, thanks to Paul Newman’s perfect casting), but vain, alcoholic, prima donna-ish and a womanizer in private.

I liked everything about this movie, especially how Cody shows an obsession with the public’s perception of “Buffalo Bill” on-par with a modern PR firm. In one of the film’s more humorous moments, he welcomes President Grover Cleveland, who is on his honeymoon, to his own self-titled ranch and resort, allowing the chief executive the use of his own bedroom. When Cleveland expresses an unwillingness to put him out, Buffalo Bill assures him he prefers to spend his nights outdoors among the plains; but of course, the first place he goes is that symbol of civilization: the tavern.

Altman, of course, was no stranger to de-mythologizing the Wild West when he made “Buffalo Bill,” having done something similar in 1971’s “McCabe & Mrs. Miller.” This time around, it’s more the Wild West show he’s dissecting, his roving camera capturing a cavalcade of characters wearing ten gallon hats, only much of it is illusion: the Native Americans are played by black or white actors for the most part; during the brilliant opening sequence, an attack on a frontier town by Indians turns out to be staged; at one point, an actor is told not to get on his horse from behind, for fear it does not look “authentic.” In the spirit of a film that takes viewers “behind the scenes,” “Buffalo Bill” also shows how much intricate choreography, micro-management, and practice went into the acts.

Even the titular character’s ride into each show accompanied by a small herd of bison is far from spontaneous. But if Buffalo Bill is indeed an image whose purpose is preserving the Wild West in its most idyllic form (and that argument is supported by what amounts to a creator, played by Burt Lancaster), the question in William Cody’s mind is whether the same can be said of Sitting Bull (Frank Kaquitts)? Here is another character with a larger-than-life reputation, but when depicted in the flesh, is short in stature, ghostly-silent, with a child-like face.

He packs none of Buffalo Bill’s bluster, but his resourcefulness clearly exceeds that of the cowboy performers. Later, he manages to win over a white audience through his own quiet dignity and grace – without having to participate in the dog-and-pony show the writers initially conceived – and when he mysteriously disappears, also manages to evade the search party led by Cody, despite his reputation of being a world-class Indian tracker.

“He has to look good in front of his people,” is Buffalo Bill’s response to Sitting Bull making a fool of him. But is Sitting Bull a legend, or, like Buffalo Bill, just a man perpetuating a legend? The answer is never clear, but by film’s end Cody, who has started to become aware of his deficiencies, comes to the decision it is better to be a has-been and know it because the alternative is ending up like Sitting Bull (whose fate I will not disclose here). "My God, look at ya! Look at ya!” he shouts. “You want to stay the same! Well, that's going backwards!" Buffalo Bill, on the contrary, continues looking forward, even if his gaze seems blank, and the rest of his image resembles an outdated relic getting older with each passing moment.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

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M*A*S*H (1970), dir. Robert Altman

The main characters are jerks, but Altman’s otherwise crazy-good comedy, which is about Vietnam without ever referencing it directly, stands up better if considered for the sum of its parts. Here is a movie that reflects a particular view on war; specifically, a war many of its participants don’t feel like taking part in. Under those circumstances, Altman and Ring Lardner, Jr., the screenwriter, seem to argue that mixing the willing and unwilling together only leads to conflict and chaos.

“M*A*S*H” centers around the doctors and nurses of the 4077 in Korea, which is stationed near the front and sees heavy casualties. The movie opens with the arrival of two new surgeons: Capt. Benjamin Pierce (Donald Sutherland), who goes by the nickname “Hawkeye,” and Capt. Forrest (Tom Skerritt). Although exceptional in the operating room, they don’t exactly behave like military professionals, but this is tolerated by their commanding officer Colonel Blake (Roger Bowen).

Soon Hawkeye and Forrest are joined by even more of a wild card: Dr. “Trapper John” McIntyre (Elliott Gould), who actually carries his own jar of olives on the outside chance he’ll be offered a dry martini. Together, they launch a reign of frat-boy-style terror intended to defy the restrictions of the army, or at the very least, help distract them from their present circumstances; namely, the parade of wounded they frequently operate on under less-than-ideal conditions.

The pranks threaten to go overboard at times, but the entire movie resembles an anarchic free-for-all. Characters are veritable cartoons (Does Hawkeye ever take off his hat, and how often do we see him or Trapper John without a drink in their hands?), and there’s more off-beat, wacky touches than can be kept track of. Col. Blake, for example, is practically a one-man comedy highlight reel, but the most irreverent sequence in the film involves a suicidal dentist and a visual reference to the Last Supper.

And let’s not forget the use of Johnny Mandel’s “Suicide is Painless” over the opening credits, during which a gurney containing a wounded soldier is accidentally dropped. It may seem in poor taste, but when there’s a song in the background stating that killing the self is preferable to going off to war, one gets the feeling the accompanying visuals are meant to be tongue-in-cheek.

Meanwhile, characters who are the butts of jokes almost always deserve it. That is certainly true for Major Frank Burns (Robert Duvall), a moral hypocrite and bully. The treatment of chief nurse “Hot Lips” O’Houlihan (Sally Kellerman), on the other hand, borders on cruelty – it’s not like she can just transfer to another post in the war, can she? But the character herself is a commissioned officer, and represents everything Hawkeye, McIntyre, and other draftees neither want nor need. For her, the strict disciplinarian is the ideal, and she threatens everybody’s fun with an official complaint regarding Col. Blake’s lack of leadership.

Altman and Lardner, however, make the argument that the moment General MacArthur dropped off American soldiers in Korea prior to retiring, the military had no head. In the case of the 4077, Cpl. “Radar” O’Reilly (Gary Burghoff) appears to be the man in charge, usually one step ahead of Col. Blake, who knows more about football than military leadership. But other authority figures fare no better, the most offensive being the misogynist C.O. of an army unit who challenges the 4077 to a pigskin match, whose leadership style is best described as belittling everyone around him.

Yes, there is a climactic football game, but that implies “M*A*S*H” actually builds to something, when really it’s relatively episodic. Indeed, the progress of time isn’t kept track of by obvious means, and although documentary-like sequences in the operating room ensure we never forget the specter of war, on the whole, there is no discernible “Raising of the stakes” one finds in a typical screenplay.

Quite the opposite happens, in fact; the beginning and middle are concerned with the physical and mental health of American soldiers and foreign civilians, but by the end, the 4077 somehow finds itself competing on a football field for a pot of money. For a while, the movie seems to be an entirely different film set somewhere in the mid-west, as opposed to the Korean theater where our armed forces are supposed to be defending the American way of life. But it befits the rest of the movie’s wackiness, and what’s more American than football and gambling?

Overall rating: ***1/2 (out of ****)

MCCABE & MRS. MILLER (1971), dir. Robert Altman

“Glamorous” is the last adjective anyone would use to describe “McCabe & Mrs. Miller,” which sets out to show how brutal life was in the North American frontier. Directed by the great Robert Altman, it overturns a lot of conventions of the Western genre, depicting a world devoid of nobility, love, and ultimately, heroic ideals.

The plot involves a man named John McCabe (Warren Beatty), who sets out building his fortune in Presbyterian Church, a burgeoning town located in northern Canada. The main industry there is zinc mines, and the town is seemingly devoid of women. McCabe, whose dream is to start up a gambling house, purchases some prostitutes, but is woefully unprepared for some of the realities of the business.

Enter Constance Miller (Julie Christie), who seems as smart and cultured as John McCabe is not. She has an idea about opening a high-class whorehouse in place of what he already has set up. Such a place, she argues, would draw customers from beyond Presbyterian Church and double his money. All she needs is an investor who will let her run it. “I’m a whore, and I know a lot about the business of whoring.”

Mrs. Miller, however, is a serious businesswoman, while McCabe is the gambler by trade. This leads to conflict after the new brothel and bathhouse are built, when some men from a large corporation look to buy them out of their holdings. Believing he can wheel and deal with the best of them, McCabe turns down their price, which later infuriates and worries Mrs. Miller. “They’d just as soon shoot you as look at you,” she warns him.

Indeed, three assassins soon arrive under the auspices of hunting bear, and begin a reign of terror against the two entrepreneurs. A gunfight – notable for both its brilliant staging as well as overall ugliness – ensues: there’s no showdown out in the open, but on the contrary, participants hide in the shadows, have no qualms about shooting somebody in the back, and die messy deaths amidst desolate and snowy backdrops.

“McCabe & Mrs. Miller” is not exactly the kind of western Hollywood produced during its Golden Age. The differences start with the actors: Beatty, despite having leading man looks, conveys none of the moral fortitude of a John Wayne-type hero. He doesn’t resemble a villain either, more a supporting cast member – some dandyish-looking, grumbling, frequently drunk supporting cast member who should be providing comic relief with a seemingly-endless supply of bawdy jokes.

There’s also an unsubstantiated rumor McCabe was a gunfighter who killed a man named Bill Roundtree. He never acknowledges this, and when trouble is actually looking for him, McCabe seems awfully hesitant and full of trepidation for someone who once took another person’s life.

While the movie busies itself tearing down a legend, it also paints a grim picture of women in the wilderness: removed from creature comforts; stared at by lustful, desperate male eyes. Mrs. Miller provides some sanctuary, but the movie does not shy away from how isolation affects her as well. If McCabe has his liquor, she has her own vices, too. They’re just more exotic ones.

Julie Christie gets Mrs. Miller perfectly, conveying glamour as well as the requisite emotional detachment. She may not pack McCabe’s bluster, but she’s a better businessperson, as evidenced by a terrific scene in which she’s both motherly and rational in selling a recently-widowed mail order bride (Shelley Duvall) on prostitution. When she was married, having sex was a means of paying for her room and board. It’s no different now, except she gets to keep a little extra for herself, Mrs. Miller argues.

Overall, the relationship between herself and McCabe is a complicated one, and this is very much a movie where the opposite of what would happen in a traditional western takes place. That’s especially clear in their romance or lack of one, although McCabe does get to utter something borderline tender: “I never did nothing to you except try to put a smile on your face,” he says.

Mrs. Miller, on the other hand, only seems to thaw in one scene where she urges him to get out of town after outside forces threaten. She turns away and starts crying, and we expect her to reveal how she cares deep-down about her boorish business partner. But it turns out she’s really worried about losing the future profits from their partnership.

That may seem all too cool and cynical for some, but Altman, who also adapted the screenplay from a novel by Edmund Naughton, was known for his modern sensibility, and “McCabe & Mrs. Miller” ranks among his best work of the 70’s. Given the widespread distrust of the establishment during the decade, it probably made sense for major corporations to be the main villains. However, there’s also a darkly-humorous scene with intimations about what big liars politicians are.

McCabe seeks help from a lawyer (William Devane) who just happened to have been a governor. The man talks about using newspapers to affect public opinion, but offers no real assistance on how not to get killed. It’s funny, the kind of thing you’d read in “Doonesbury,” but you get the feeling this is exactly what Old West legends really were: ordinary, flawed individuals touted as heroes, when all they really did was gamble and lose.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)