Legends of Western Cinema Week | Gender Commentary in The Big Country {1958}

Howdy, partners!  For today's LoWCW post, I'm sharing an essay that I wrote last year for a Western film class in college.  This essay is about one of my tip-top favorite Westerns (and probably movies in general??):  The Big Country (1958).  

Now, a couple of notes before we begin:

1)  I wrote this essay during a compressed sub-semester.  As I recently mentioned, I'm also working full time and managing health stuff.  So, take the writing with a merciful grain of salt — it's not quite as strong or polished as it could/should be, and I know that.  For example, syntax is a growth area for me, so when you encounter all those overly long, twisty sentences . . . just know that I already know. 😂

2)  I am, of course, dealing in generalities when I speak of traditional Western gender constructs, stereotypes, problems, etc.  Don't get your panties in a wad.  I like Westerns, remember?

3)  I've cut and pasted the text verbatim, with the exception of deleting the timestamp citations, fixing a few minor grammatical/formatting errors, and removing one very brief section that was only added in the original to reach a course sourcing requirement.  I've also inserted more paragraph breaks for ease of reading.  (And added pictures and one picture caption that quite obviously did not go in the essay.  I'll let you guess which one that is. 😂)

William Wyler’s 1958 The Big Country simultaneously epitomizes and deconstructs the traditional Western epic.  A heavily character-driven story, the film highlights crucial relational dynamics that often go unexplored within the Western oeuvre, and it also challenges the viewer’s perception of that oeuvre.  It does this in many ways, but one of the most notable is its exploration of gender roles and gender identity, as well as of gender interaction.

The Big Country both upholds and subverts the status quo when it comes to traditional Western treatment of female characters.  The narrative clearly posits that there are both “right” and “wrong” forms of womanhood, as it presents Julie Maragon and Pat Terrill as diametrically opposed both in personality and in worth.  Pat is the stereotypically incorrect kind of woman: she is demanding, spoiled, petulant, and – perhaps most importantly – unwilling to submit to the “better judgment” of her love interest, Jim McKay (the film’s hero).  She consistently balks against his ideals of true manhood by counterposing her own, summed up in the question she presents to Julie after Jim disappoints her:  “If he loved me, why would he let me think he’s a coward?”  Julie, by contrast, demonstrates by her response to the question that she is what the narrative considers the correct kind of woman:  “If you love him, why would you think it? How many times does a man have to win you?”  Julie is everything that Pat (ostensibly) is not:  wise, diplomatic, kind, and – perhaps most importantly – aligned with the values of the male hero.  

While this kind of characterization necessarily pits women against each other in troubling ways, it is at least partially redeemed by two details which are often missing in Western narratives of a similar ilk.  For one thing, this contentious characterization is not onesidedly gendered as it is in many Westerns – in The Big Country, the narrative pits the male protagonists against one another almost as violently.  For another, while Julie’s character does capitulate to the idea that any departure from an arbitrary ideal of femininity is undesirable, she also upends the traditional archetypal structure of the Western genre by technically holding the greatest amount of agency when it comes to the exposition of the plot.  Blake Lucas writes in The Western Reader that, in the majority of Westerns, “men have commonly driven the action of a film in an external way, [while] women have often driven it from within themselves.”  In this particular Western, however, a woman is given the opportunity to catalyze the story in a much more “external,” concrete, and active manner.  Jim McKay may be the hero of the piece, but the outcome of the conflict does not hinge – or does not hinge solely – on him.  Rather, it hinges on Julie’s ability to successfully, safely, and sensibly navigate the geographical catch-22 in which she finds herself as the owner of the Big Muddy.   The land war highlighted in The Big Country is not waged over land owned by a man, but by a woman.  Julie holds full legal rights to the dispensation of the integral river and the land surrounding it, and in that way, though this is not always shown explicitly by the story, she in fact holds a tremendous amount of power over its male players.

This complicated concept of feminine identity is examined on a technical level by the absence of traditionally female-coded visuals.  With the exception of the ball scene, the female characters move easily through the male-dominated world of the film without attempting to soften or “feminize” it, instead co-opting some traditionally masculine activities: riding horses astride instead of sidesaddle, wearing pants, and even (in Julie’s case) singlehandedly restoring an old estate.  Even the women’s clothing balks against female fashion stereotypes:  Julie’s pink ball gown is the most stereotypically feminine piece to be seen in the whole film, with the possible exception of Pat’s chemise and robe, but aside from these two instances, the women dress in fairly understated clothing.  In choosing a black ball gown as opposed to a more traditionally female-coded color, for example, Pat visually demonstrates a rejection of the idea that femininity is dependent on arbitrary, preconceived notions of dress, behavior, etc.  Thus, while the film does not wholly overturn gender expectations in every regard, it does present a more concerted effort to challenge them than many films of the genre.

The concept and construct of masculinity is likewise questioned by the film.  Early on, The Big Country establishes that it is not your average Western when it comes to the portrayal of male identity.  For one thing, the hero, Jim McKay, does not capitulate to the “Manifest Destiny” mythos upon which the Western genre often relies.  Far from falling to his proverbial knees before the purportedly awesome grandeur of the Old West, Jim is instead impartial and objective about it.  He appreciates its geographical beauty and sees its financial opportunity, but will not acknowledge it to be the pinnacle of either, as demonstrated by his conversation with one of the dinner guests in the ballroom scene.  He answers the enthused question, “Did you ever see anything so big [as the West]?” with the laconic, slightly amused, and honest, “Well, yes. . . . A couple of oceans.”  Jim has the benefit of externality twice over – as an “outsider” to the West (an Easterner) and as a former naval officer.  He has seen much more of the world than any of the rest of the characters and thus can put the West in its proper global context.  He has also already proven his mettle as a man in other arenas, and therefore does not “need” the West to establish his own manhood in the same way that many of his cowboy peers do.  

More significant to the film’s exploration of masculinity, however, is its central thematic conflict, which hinges on the inability of the immature characters (like Major and Pat Terrill, Steve Leech, and the Hannasseys) to recognize what the more mature characters (like Jim, Julie, and Ramon) already have:  that courage is not an external trophy but an internal cultivation, and therefore it does not need to prove itself at the expense of human life.   As Jim puts it when goaded by Pat: “I’m not [a coward], and I’m not going to spend the rest of my life demonstrating how brave I am.”   This narrative moral directly challenges – and even rejects – the traditional Western ethos of “needing” to “shoot first and ask questions later.”  Jim proves himself capable of defusing and deescalating contentious situations without ever lifting a hand against another person.  However, he demonstrates that he is willing and able to utilize his physical strength to defend the vulnerable when necessary (i.e. punching Buck Hannassey after he hits Julie).  This thematic focus is epitomized in the duel between Jim and Buck when Jim, after unintentionally proving just how cowardly the recklessly violent Buck is, fires his allotted shot into the ground and tosses the gun away, his facial expression and body language clearly indicating the contemptible uselessness of this kind of conflict resolution.  

I'm so sorry but this moment is one of the single sexiest things I've ever seen onscreen and I can't pretend it's not. 😂

Toxic masculinity is portrayed over and over as that which jumps to violence as a first resort.  Major Terrill retaliates against the defenseless women and children of his enemy by jeopardizing their water supply in a move which even the ethically dubious Steve Leech questions (“You want that, Major?”).  Rufus Hannassey blames his sons for not getting themselves killed rather than retreat before the much larger Terrill force (“Why ain’t you dead?”).  Steve is constantly spoiling for a fight, clearly dying to have it out with Jim – even though the payout, when he actually does, is rather anticlimactic and dissatisfactory (“Now tell me, Leech: what did we prove?”).  Significantly, Steve is only “redeemed” by the narrative once he capitulates to Jim’s example of nonviolence, as demonstrated by his restraint when the Major accuses him of cowardice:  “You can call me whatever you want, but I’m not beating up any more men for you.”

Masculinity is also explored on a technical level through the cinematography of the film.  Male isolation is emphasized by the “man vs. nature” imagery of lone men silhouetted against wide, sweeping vistas or riding en masse through hostile topographical terrain.  The use of music also reinforces the film’s unorthodox stance on male identity and male dynamics.  For example, where many Westerns use loud, stirring, brass-heavy scoring to sensationalize high-conflict moments, The Big Country allows those moments to play out in relative and realistic silence or only moderately “tense” music.  One may note, for instance, the lack of musical fanfare in key scenes such as Jim and Steve’s fistfight and the feuding patriarchs’ long-awaited stand-off in Blanco Canyon.  

Music is not used to overly dramatize or glorify much in this film, except perhaps the Terrill group’s ride through Blanco Canyon.  What is interesting about this exception, however, is that, where most Westerns would eulogize the militant might of the riders, this film uses the scene and its score to honor the triumph of the men’s personal loyalty to and affection for Major Terrill, which leads them to accompany him on a venture which they clearly and objectively recognize as foolish at best and morally wrong at worst.  Thus, The Big Country offers a distinctly unorthodox perspective on the questions of masculinity and masculine relationship posed by the Western genre as a narrative tradition.

The film not only conducts a layered exploration of gendered characterization; it also offers a unique perspective on sexual politics by highlighting different facets of the dynamic and cooperation (or lack thereof) between the sexes within the story.  This dynamic is particularly emphasized in the film’s relatively bold portrayal of sexual assault.  The Big Country acknowledges the reality of sexual violence much more explicitly and thoroughly than do many Westerns.  It accomplishes this in large part by also acknowledging the tremendous potential for sexual violence intrinsic to the traditional sexual ethos of the Western genre, which typically posits men as “conquerors” by divine and social right – conquerors not only of land but of women, an archetypal role which is reinforced on multiple levels of the traditional Western[.]

At its most reductionist, it can be argued that the Western genre is peopled by female characters who exist in generative, not in personal, capacities.  Women exist to provide their male counterparts with things – qualities, comforts, outlets – that they cannot get elsewhere.  The ubiquity of saloon girls and prostitutes within the genre, irrespective of the relative historical accuracy or lack thereof of their presence, provides a prime demonstration of the traditional ideology that tacitly undergirds the sexual framework of the Western:  If men cannot experience sexual release, they may become violent (as illustrated by The Big Country’s sexually frustrated Steve Leech), and therefore it would be better for men to have a designated “class” of women to use as their sexual outlets than to risk them “naturally” becoming sexually aggressive toward “good, decent” women because they cannot satisfy their sexual urges elsewhere.  

While The Big Country surpasses its cinematic peers in honestly evaluating this inequitable sexual currency, however, it also contains its own forms of hypocrisy surrounding the issue, as demonstrated by the disparate treatments of the two sexual assaults that occur onscreen.  Buck’s attempted rape of Julie is framed as horrific and as yet another proof of his evil nature.  It is also built to narratively over the course of the film, as the story clearly portrays his tendency toward sexual intimidation.  The first interaction between Buck and Julie, for instance, clearly foreshadows the future assault as Buck sneaks into Julie’s home, blocks her exit from the kitchen, pulls her forcibly onto his lap, admits that he “like[s] a woman that’s scared of [him],” and issues an ostensibly jesting but genuinely frightening sexual threat (“School’s over for today, teacher, but I’ll be back”).  

By contrast, Steve’s assault of Pat is framed much more mildly.  Indeed, it is essentially overlooked by the narrative, as Steve retains its good graces and is portrayed as an essentially good man.  The incident is not explicitly acknowledged to be assault; instead, the narrative seems to indicate that Pat secretly reciprocates Steve’s sexual attraction and therefore she “wanted” to be forcibly kissed by him, despite clearly resisting the kiss and violently biting Steve’s lip to the point of drawing blood.  Her sobs after he leaves the room are tacitly framed as an expression of her conflicted loyalties instead of as the natural response of someone who has just been assaulted.  The narrative insinuates that there is a prior romantic history between Pat and Steve, and therefore does not condemn his habit of lurking around her and of antagonizing her when the two of them are alone in the same way that it condemns Buck’s comparative aggression towards Julie.  

In this narrative conceptualization of sexual violence, the level of blame assigned to the perpetrator is based upon whether or not the victim is a “good” woman.  In essence, the film implies that Pat “deserves” to be assaulted, whereas Julie clearly doesn’t.  Thus, as in its exploration of femininity and masculinity as distinct identities, The Big Country offers a variegated and at times conflicting stance on sexual politics and the ethics thereof. 

The Big Country has much to offer the analytical cinephile, as each successive viewing may uncover additional layers of characterization, gender commentary, genre criticism, and thematic foci.  The film’s deconstruction of gender roles is especially rewarding, as it digs beneath the surface of traditional Western prototyping and offers a variety of alternatives in both the feminine and the masculine arenas.  It is also notable for its frank (if inconsistent) treatment of sexual brutality, a byproduct of many Western film plots that is too often swept under the narrative rug rather than dealt with openly.  All in all, though The Big Country may be less flashy than many of its cinematic forebears, it is also undeniably richer, and it stands as a quietly towering monument to the artistic potential and enduring power of the Western genre.