Texas

Giant

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas

Howdy y’all. It’s July, it’s Cancer season, it’s the hottest summer Austin has ever had, and the present and future of human rights is looking bleak, so I don’t blame you if you’re feeling burned out. I wasn’t feeling much in the fourth of July spirit this year (or any year for that matter), so I decided to stay home and watch movies (typical) but I didn’t want to watch any Independence Day movies, not even Independence Day. So, instead, I decided to watch films centered upon a topic that I’m also not so enthusiastic about: Texas. I’ve lived in Texas since I was two and I have seen many sides of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly (aka: Austin, Dallas, and Houston) [JK!!] I have a love/hate relationship with Texas. I love the Lone Star state for its beautiful sunsets, its vastness, its fascinating history, its ingrained (forced?) kindness, and its ability to mythologize even mundane things. I hate Texas for its heat, its stubbornness, its consistently backward politics, and its general lack of empathy when it comes to human beings. For those of you who’ve never been to Texas and seen any of its good qualities, I can completely understand why you’d assume the worst. But just know that Texas is not all horrible governors and horrible senators and horrible lieutenant governors or horrible attorney generals. Texas is so massive, so iconic, so divisive, and so distinct—for better or for worse—that its impact upon film and television is constant and, in this Texan’s opinion, always compelling. I’ve watched a few films set in Texas on this never-ending movie marathon (Blood Simple, Hell Or High Water, The Last Picture Show, Slacker) but I’ve never intentionally sought out any Texas films because despite my appreciation for the this place’s aesthetic, so many of the films set here are typically sad, long, hyper-masculine, and make me worry that a horse is gonna die. Well, in tonight’s first feature, George Stevens’ 1956 film Giant, a horse does die (see?) but it’s really the only part of the film that I didn’t like. Based off of Edna Ferber’s novel of the same name, Giant is a Texas epic that documents the trials and tribulations of an affluent ranching family dynasty in Texas in the early to mid 20th century. Rock Hudson stars as Jordan “Bick” Benedict, a stubborn, stalwart conservative lone cattle-ranching titan who travels to Maryland in search of a new horse, but instead finds the lovely, ball-busting liberal Leslie Lynnton (Elizabeth Taylor) whom he quickly marries and starts a family with upon transporting her to Texas. From the very start of this 3 hour and 21 minute film to the very end, Texas is conceptualized as some sort of mythic, formidable land that only hardened brutes can survive—which, to be fair, is not too far off (especially in the summertime). Texas is, itself, a character in this film, for how much it is referenced by and personified in each character, in their dreams, and their expectations. Jordan and Leslie, while in love, are constantly at odds with one another. Her socially-conscious mindset and desire to be involved with the business goes against everything the close-minded, set-in-his-ways Jordan believes in. Leslie is unafraid of Jordan’s brooding prowess, and educates him on Texas’ history and how its land was stolen from Mexico, to which her father matter-of-factly says: “You mustn’t talk that way to a Texan.” Like a typical conservative Texan, Jordan is appalled and a little turned on by the challenge that she presents. Many scenes document how Leslie is acutely aware of Jordan’s emotional inaccessibility, in one of the many instances where he is unwilling to help members of his ranch staff Leslie says, “Well, graciousness is accepted elsewhere”—aptly implying that while Texas is full of manners, empathy is not inherent. They’re both passionate and staunch in their respective stances on life, yet somehow they remain together throughout the course of their tumultuous but expansive lives. Their relationship is fairly symbolic of the people of Texas—how opposing beliefs and differing perspectives can coexist in spite of one another. While Texas is traditionally a red state, the many blue oasis’ in this giant have nearly turned us purple several times. James Dean, who (in his third and final film) plays a ranch hand turned oil tycoon with a Boomhauer accent, represents another side of Texas—its simultaneous ambition and aimlessness. This Texas version of Gone With the Wind is full of surprises, and somehow doesn’t feel like 3 hours and 21 minutes at all. The clashing of cultures, of old beliefs versus progressive thinking, is incredibly emblematic of the state of Texas and its many contradictions. Rock Hudson, who for the majority of the movie is a bigoted sexist and racist, evolves into a kinder, more thoughtful human being in the end. While the representation (and makeup alone) of the people of color in this film is of course not ideal, for the 1950s, it feels pretty progressive to have a scene where Rock Hudson defends Mexican migrant workers who are refused service at a diner. It’s a nice, albeit unexpected and unlikely, outcome for this complex character, but considering the fact that this moment wasn’t in the original novel at all, it shouldn’t go unappreciated. Though rife with stereotypes, Hollywood’s version of Texas, as it would turn out, was far more progressive than Texas actually was at the time, and continues to be. Many Texans still hold negative views toward migrant workers and immigrants, despite them being the backbone for our economy. Giant not only symbolized the American dream as a whole, it not only personified the complexities of the Texas spirit, it predicted the fact that Texas would become majority minority state—with the final frame of the film showing Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor’s grandchildren: one Caucasian, and one Hispanic, side-by-side. Though the making of and the reception of this film was complicated, Giant is undeniably iconic: from its enormous, sprawling sets, its cast (I didn’t even mention a young Dennis Hopper is in this), and its surprisingly humanizing qualities. Another film that simultaneously criticized and humanized Texas is the gem that is known as The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. This is one of those films that, due to my family’s obsession with all things pop culture and all things Texas, popped up on my tv screen loads of times at random intervals in my life, but I’d never actually sat down to watch the whole thing. Jim Nabors, Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise, Charles Durning, and the effervescently wonderful Dolly Parton star in this wild, rip-roaring, true story-turned-Broadway musical-turned-film about a beloved Texas institution and the people who fought to protect it against a wacky, conniving investigative reporter. As this article (on the most ad-riddled website I’ve ever seen) details, Edna’s Boarding House (aka The Chicken Ranch within the film and play) was a real brothel and safe haven for sex workers that operated from 1915 to 1973. While prostitution was illegal during the entirety of its existence, The Chicken Ranch remained as above board as possible and played by the rules. The more I read about this place, the more that I am certain that the film nor the play did its true, insane story justice, but I adored this film. If you thought I was done with queer cinema when Pride month ended, honey, you best avoid the rest of this review, because The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas was perhaps the gayest film I’ve ever viewed on this blog. With the suggestive posing of its players, the use of phallic objects, the gorgeous costumes, the flamboyance of every single character, the most erotically-charged football team I’ve ever seen, and Dolly’s presence alone, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas was gloriously queer and unabashedly sex positive. No amount of cowboy cliches or stubborn Southern lawmen could make this movie serious or stoic like the many Texas films that came before it, and I loved it for that. It was silly, frenetic fun that, whether done intentionally or not, made a lovely mockery of my home state while still honoring a fascinating part of its history. The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, while perhaps shocking in its name, was also shockingly wholesome, and shockingly accurate in its representation of Texas. Between the cowboy hats, college football, the conflicting bureaucracy, the pretty sunsets, and the hatred toward A&M, this film was about as true to Texas as it could be. Whether you love Texas or hate it, whether you’re a lifelong resident or reluctant passenger just traveling through, you cannot deny the influence this place has had upon popular culture. Texas will, despite its many many flaws and attempts to secede, remain the massive icon that it is because it is referenced and parodied and made fun of so much. Texas is a mythic place: it is so gigantic, so desolate, yet so brimming with life. I’m not always proud of my home state, in fact, with every headline I read about our governor I feel my love for this place depleting more and more. But I could never outright hate this place. Maybe its the stubborn southern gal in me, maybe its the fact that I love so many stories set here, but Texas will always have a place in my heart—and it will always be a pain in my ass. They say everything’s bigger in Texas, including blog posts written here as well, so I’ll hush up for now. But y’all come back now, ya here?