Gran Torino

Mike Borch
January 11, 2009
Art Journalism:
Gran Torino

Gran Torino is a movie in which Clint Eastwood asserts his unmistakable prowess as an actor and director both to tell a very real story and to reprimand the stereotypes of America as Walt Kowalski, a hardened Korean War veteran at the end of his life who begrudgingly becomes part of the lives of a family of Hmong immigrants that move in next door to him in an increasingly-foreign Detroit suburb. After Kowalski thwarts an unconfident Hmong boy named Thao’s attempt at stealing his cherished ’72 Gran Torino, a task he was bullied into by his gangbanging cousin “spider” and accompanying posse, Thao’s family insist that he make up for his trespass by working for Kowalski. A friendship is forged between the two as Walt consents to making a man out of Thao, and the two play out this plot quite well until “spider” and his posse do something unforgivable, and Walt realizes he must take matters into his own hands to protect the lives of the last few people he holds dear.
Unsurprisingly, Eastwood’s performance is powerful and solid, and it’s unlikely a better man could have been found for this part. He stands next to his wife’s open casket at her funeral, his gnarled face twisted in its iconic squinting grimace as he watches his detached relatives take their seats in the church. His thin lips contort as these upstart businessmen, spoilt young idiots cracking jokes, and an insufferable teenage princess bearing a midriff and piercing, line up in the pews. He sits, stewing in his disgruntled funk, as the 27-year old Irish boy of a preacher begins to ramble about the “bittersweetness of death.” He growls and runs down a list of racist slurs as strange Asian Hmong immigrants move into the house next door. He erupts with rage as his son starts spreading out retirement home brochures before him. He spares young Thao a glimpse of a smile as they share a moment. He coughs up blood and wonders whether he fears death, and glares down the barrel of a rifle aimed between the eyes of a Hmong gangbanger while he lays down his obligatory Dirty-Harry shtick and protects the lives of the innocent.
Yes, there is plenty of acting in this movie, yet Eastwood seems to supply so much of it that sometimes it comes off as comical. Several scenes feel added for the sole purpose of letting a true American like Clint scoff at the idiocies of pop culture, and the supporting cast and much of the script is laden with stereotypes so heavy they often seem campy rather than epitomic. My favorite example of this issue is when Clint tells this joke to his old salty bar buddies: “I’ve got a better one. So a Mexican, a Chinaman, and a Colored Guy walk into a bar, and the bartender says… get the f*** out of here,” to which there is hearty, wheezing laughter. However, it’s quite easy to take these issues in stride; it’s intriguing how Eastwood can pull off every “gook” “chink” and “dragon lady” racist quip and keep it fresh, and seeing the man fight for what’s righteous in a world mired in intolerable and unchanging stereotypes made for a very moving experience.