Cinema as we know it stands in the balance. Everything is up in the air. Tentpoles are vanishing, screens are shutting and audiences are scared. And in times like this, we always find ourselves drawn to certainty. Something so rock-steady and reliable that you can set your watch by it. And so it is with some relief we learn that Clint Eastwood’s new film will be called Cry Macho.
Cry Macho, for crying out loud. It’s as if Clint Eastwood hired a marketing firm to distil the essence of his entire filmography into two words. Cry Macho. It’s the most brilliantly Eastwoodish title imaginable, so much so that you could close your eyes and jab a pin into his IMDb page, and whatever film you hit would be vastly improved by retitling it Cry Macho.
I know this. I’ve tried. Million Dollar Baby could have been called Cry Macho. Gran Torino could have been called Cry Macho. The Mule could have been called Cry Macho. Flags of Our Fathers, American Sniper, Unforgiven, Pale Rider, The Outlaw Josey Wales. Almost all of his films, with the possible exception of Jersey Boys, could have been called Cry Macho.
The film has a plot – a former rodeo star finds redemption as he accompanies a troubled boy on a journey through rural Mexico – but that doesn’t really matter. You are either the sort of person who will feel a comforting yearning upon seeing a movie poster with “CLINT EASTWOOD CRY MACHO” written on it, or you are not.
The fact that this film has been fruitlessly passed backwards and forwards between stars for decades – former interested parties have included Burt Lancaster, Pierce Brosnan, Arnold Schwarzenegger and a previous version of Clint Eastwood who wasn’t sufficiently Cry Machoey yet – just goes to show how preordained this all feels. Arnold Schwarzenegger could never make a film called Cry Macho. Yell Incomprehensible, yes. Punch Glum, possibly. But not Cry Macho. And Pierce Brosnan is still too slick to play a washed-up rodeo cowboy. This role calls for a gnarled old piece of driftwood, while he remains at best shop-worn polycarbonate.
But Clint Eastwood is 90 years old. He’s still spry and energetic, and still tough enough to beat you in a fight, but relatively speaking this will be one of his final films. There is a good chance that, whenever you look at his life’s work from this point onwards, the words “Cry Macho” will be right there at the top, as a way of setting the tone for the rest of his movies.
It’s a brilliant trick, and one that other ageing directors should attempt to follow. As it stands, for instance, Martin Scorsese’s last film would be The Irishman. That’s a desperately bland name for a film, and one that gives no indication whatsoever about his catalogue. His next film is set to be Killers of the Flower Moon, based on a book about the intertwining of Native Americans and the early years of the FBI. It’ll probably be good, but it wouldn’t tie the bow on his career like a film that was called something like Mook Shoot. And Woody Allen is now 84. His most recent completed work is Rifkin’s Festival, but for the sake of completion his next one should be called Problematic Grandpa or Trigger Warning or just Nope.
But Clint Eastwood has done it. Hopefully Cry Macho will live up to our expectations, and maybe even prompt a sequel. Sure, you’ll like Cry Macho, but you’ll love Cry Machoer.
