It is, for my money, the greatest thirty seconds in the history of the cinema. If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times, if only because it’s one of the few scenes going that needs no context. The movie surrounding it is a brilliant, hard-bitten modern noir, of course, but wholly unnecessary for the overall enjoyment of this extracted moment in time. Even just this very second, as inspiration for this essay, I let it unspool a dozen more times; ear-to-ear smile in place as if it were the first. What loved ones I have left – and there aren’t many – are all on notice that if I start to fade and last rites are imminent, I am to be brought a phone, and this glorious half-minute is to be put on an endless loop until I expire. In life and in death, I want it to be my epitaph. The very thing that folks recall when they ask, “What did the man stand for?” This, friends. This and nothing else.
I repeat: this is not a movie review. Not an examination of a late-60’s classic that deserves its 2,000 words of fawning and fandom. No, this is a tribute. To just this all too brief candle that illuminates like a universe of suns. To one man – Lee Marvin – and perhaps the only woman who could share the scene – Angie Dickinson. They are Walker and Chris, and for now, they are the only people who have ever existed. Yes, they can stand in for the entirety of life on this planet, proudly and without shame. For in the untold centuries of male/female relations, they’ve summed it up. Without words, mind you, because going verbal only clouds the issue. Instead, we have gestures. Pure physicality. The battle of mankind, though only one of the parties is lashing out. Predictably, that’s the broad. She’s tough as nails in her own right, but by spitting fire, she loses the war.
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Again, never mind what brought us here or where we’re going once we’re through. It’s enough to know that Chris begins with her purse. Swings aplenty. Then her fists. A smack, a flurry of smacks, then a push. She’s flailing, hysterically, as if making her stand for a lifetime of slights. Both hands are employed. Another shove. Heavy breathing to accompany the fury. It’s likely the most intense beatdown ever levied by the female of the species, and it doesn’t make a dent. For you see, Walker never moves. Doesn’t block, bob, or even weave. He accepts it all. No words, no retaliation, just stoicism incarnate, without a moment’s betrayal. No rage, no retribution. That he could have knocked her into next week is obvious. That he’d be justified, even more so. But he’s there to take it. Absorb the blows. Prove once and for all that the best way to reduce a woman to an exhausted heap is to treat it all like routine. No big deal. All that, missy, and I’m still standing. Adjust your suit and walk away. It’s more impactful than sending the entirety of her teeth down her throat.
Yes, friends, Walker understood. Most men don’t, which explains our collective depression. Give ‘em what they want, and they cackle evermore. But Walker is a statue; ramrod straight, devoid of emotion. She’d have gone on for hours had she the strength. And she’s more than played out in the moment, she’s done forever. She had this one chance, and she blew it. Full abdication, with the kingdom safely in his hands. And it took a Lee Marvin to make it happen. The guy served in the Pacific theater during WWII, for chrissakes. A purse, he can handle. Even one wielded by Angie Dickinson. And no, it’s no deeper than simply returning to form, before the compromises sent testosterone the way of the dodo. A man, for a change. A man of consequence.
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