If wars must be waged, thank the stars for men like Bull Meechum (Robert Duvall). Every last despicable act – from incendiary raids high above the clouds, to meat grinder extravaganzas that bleed nations white for mere yards – depends wholly on the mindless fanaticism of those who kill quickly and instinctively, without a trace of sentiment or hesitation. They, and they alone, will man the tanks, pilot the planes, and, when called upon, look someone in the eye with icy detachment before sending them to Jesus. Yes, these are tragic, though necessary figures, and all centuries – especially our 20th – are unimaginable without them. A failure to roust these lads from their beds would have, after all, resulted in utter catastrophe for the entire globe. Lads like Bull Meechum. So naturally, we thank them. Affix permanent respect to their gory deeds. But when the guns fall silent, what is to become of them? What must be done with the Great Santinis of our world?
Peacetime is the ultimate dilemma, as we know. It is, of course, the lone endgame to war, but when it comes, we are left with not only those needing burial, but hundreds of thousands of the broken and the battered. Physical wounds, yes, to say nothing of the PTSD, trauma, and mental deterioration that often lasts forever. In the case of old Bull, seemingly untouched by the scars of WWII, he is present and accounted for in this year of 1962, full of the same energy and drive that once took him to faraway lands, but there’s also an undeniable detachment. Something missing. Because now, he’s stateside. Landlocked. Training and preparing without a meaningful shot to be fired. And that’s the problem. For all soldiers, needless to say, but most painfully for Meechum. He’s got a family now, with four kids in tow. A plantation-style home with a maid to match. Meals on the table, and pillow talk with the missus. But his heart and soul are elsewhere. Every waking moment of the day.
Cutting to the chase with razor-like efficiency, let’s be clear: Bull Meechum is intolerable. An unrelenting pain in the ass. A miserable, obnoxious sumbitch from the old school. A mold not only broken, but set aflame and buried deep, lest its kind ever again walk the earth. All Marine, 24/7. Semper Fi tattooed on the fucking brain. The sort of man who wakes you up at 4am just because. A man so hypercompetitive, he almost certainly screams for you to come look at his morning shit and demand that you top it. Where some backyard one-on-one takes on more importance than Game 7 of the NBA Finals. And losing is taken with so little grace that he torments you for hours until you threaten to cut his throat. Pushups at sunup because your sleep must forever and always surrender to his macho posturing. Screams and threats, directives and commands; all set to a never-ending military time that grates like nails on a chalkboard.
Using the age-old excuse that his toughness is meant only to raise well-adjusted children ready for a cruel world, his methods are instead the most obvious form of abuse. He manipulates and scolds not to shape young minds and bodies into excellence, but simply because he can’t turn off the military ethic where nothing matters more than the chain of command. Orders are meant to be followed, even if sadistic and cruel, or simply motivated by the desire to humiliate. Again, all absolute requirements when one is surrounded by land mines, grenades, and IED’s, but far from reasonable when you’re just trying to watch television on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Only there are no such days. You’ll win, always – and like it. Strive and push and grind and speak only when spoken to. Such madness might be defensible if applied with a broad brush, but in Bull’s case, he’s really quite laser-focused on his eldest boy, Ben (Michael O’Keefe). Sure, he craps all over the girls, too, but just because they’re in the way. Their futures, in his mind, mean very little. His heir apparent must be ready, if called upon.
And called upon he’ll be, because if The Great Santini is anything, it’s sadly formulaic in its portrait of a boy becoming a man. I’ll admit, I was a bit tickled by the idea that this absolute shitbag of a father would die so that his son could finally breathe, but as the end scenes reveal, Ben is just another Bull in waiting. Almost as if by fiat, Ben’s post-funeral mannerisms prove only that for all of his objections during the course of the film, he was simply biding his time, waiting for the old man to yield to his own lust for power. He would not choose the opposite, or end the cycle, but simply fulfill his destiny. Had there been a sequel, we’d have watched Ben himself join the Marines, land in Vietnam, commit atrocities, and return to his own family, a hapless bunch who would have had the honor of becoming punching bags to help daddy dear process My Lai. And yes, Ben’s son to follow. And on and on and on. Alcoholism undoubtedly runs in the family, afflicting generation after generation, but so does the military mind. God forbid you be the one to say no.
Ultimately, The Great Santini is a lousy film for any number of reasons – first to mind is the unnecessary side story of Ben and the local stutterer (a young black man), whose only purpose seems to be as a showcase for O’Keefe’s ham-fisted acting – but above all, the only thing that matters is the director’s insistence that Bull is just a loveable lug under the skin, and his death a somber, life-changing event. Had the screenplay demonstrated real courage, the entire family – Ben most of all – would have arrived late to the funeral, pissed in the hole, and danced away to parts unknown. Mrs. Meechum would have reverted to her maiden name, shacked up with a new fella – preferably a hippie – with the kids, one and all, dropping out of school to join a commune.
Instead, we get a one-note immersion in unpleasantness, all set to the tired tune that so long as a parent has good intentions, his or her methods are beside the point. We must remember fondly, eyes misty, as if the torture of years was but a lark instituted by a mere eccentric. Just once, let the cries spring forth as the casket is lowered into the earth: fuck him, fuck his memory, and here’s hoping that hell exists so at least I can get through my days knowing that his suffering continues unabated. Self-help tomes and therapists tell us that letting go is the only way, and that to find peace, we must forgive. The Great Santini, drivel-encrusted Oscar bait (for Duvall and O’Keefe!) that it is, inspires a new and better solution. Call ‘em out, and keep doing so, encouraging the next generation to do the same, until your own voice is silenced. And yes – hell yes – embrace the nuance. A man can be a hero in one context, and a fuckwad in another. And for this Marine, it’s a good bet he’ll default mostly to the latter.
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