I’ve made it no secret: I am a huge movie buff and were I forced to decide on my top twenty-five or fifty movies, half would have some connection to Clint Eastwood. He’d either be in them, have directed them, written them, or all of the above. And that would be excluding all the classic “spaghetti Westerns” of the 1960s and the television series Rawhide, because there are just too many “classic” Westerns starring Clint, and I was born the year before Rawhide ended its run (1965).

And if you were to name the top twenty movie stars of the twentieth century, John Wayne would be near the top of the list. The thing is, particularly in the movie business, there are one-dimensional professionals and there are multidimensional ones.  John Wayne was a movie star, and I’m not sure I would ever use that single-dimension to describe Eastwood. During the years where one might argue they were competitors (i.e. making only Westerns), I would suggest John Wayne was far more the icon than was his “less cinematic” counterpart.

My father, well, he never missed a John Wayne movie OR a Clint Eastwood flick, but the first film I really remember loving—not just enjoying, but being filled with that indescribable ball of desire deep in the belly that screams “I want to do something like that”—was Pale Rider. Before that, I would have said my all-time favorite Clint movie was The Outlaw Josie Wales (however, while that was the first movie I remember seeing alongside my old man, and it being one of the first that tickled my funny bone as well as left me rooting soundly for the hero), it wasn’t until Pale Rider that I felt like Clint and I were somehow kindred souls of a sort.

Now I can hear some of you purists from the 1970s and 80s shouting “but what about Dirty Harry?”—and I acquiesce to loving the thrill ride that was “the man with the seven inch barrel and .44 caliber justice”. Make my day, indeed. In fact, one of my favorite quote/scenes comes from the original, Dirty Harry (1971):

“I know what you’re thinking, punk. You’re thinking ‘did he fire six shots or only five?’ Now to tell you the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and will blow your head clean off, you’ve gotta ask yourself a question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?”

But again, and not unlike the “spaghetti Westerns”, to me those were purely for the entertainment, like a carnival ride. It’s my feeling that Clint didn’t really start to slide into his own wheelhouse of genius until 1985 and Pale Rider. The character of “Preacher” did more than just drop fantastic one-liners, spit tobacco juice, or wield a six-shooter like a killing magician.

In my opinion, in or about the mid eighties, Clint Eastwood began to drink from the chalice of the filmMAKER. Put differently, I believe he found the secret of the holy entertainment grail:

HEART.

Yes, he still had another Harry Callahan flick in him, as well as a couple of questionable choices (Pink Cadillac, The Rookie, and Space Cowboys), but is there any true movie fan—whether a big fan of Westerns or no—who doesn’t think Unforgiven (1992) is one of the best films ever laid down on celluloid? My father died in 1993, and I am still comforted that he lived long enough to see one of his two favorite Hollywood personas create, perhaps, his greatest piece of work.

Don’t get me wrong; Eastwood’s genius in creating master works of entertainment do not always require deep, introspective attention. One of my forever favorites from the man is In the Line of Fire (1993). Eastwood did not direct that one, although my guess is he had a director’s “input” when it came to making the film all that it could be. Another movie that same year that he did direct, A Perfect World, with Kevin Costner, is one of my sleeper favorites.

I can think of no other name in Hollywood that is more synonymous to me with “go-to filmmaker” than Clint Eastwood. Million Dollar Baby; Gran Torino; and his latest masterpiece, Trouble with the Curve, that did not seem to get the media attention as much as the others, but may honestly have been my second favorite Eastwood film, after Unforgiven. The complexities intertwined; an absentee father, realizing he’s reached the age (and a world) where expertise is undervalued and computer code replaces gut feeling, but where the awakening of his lifelong love for his daughter (and her steadfast refusal to believe she could be anything but exactly like him)—well, see it. Eastwood has indeed honed his muse to a nearly perfect pitch.

And he’s taken on myriad, relevant human conundrums: the bitter, horrific necessity of vengeance; awakening to failed fatherhood; stoic, unrelenting racism and bigotry; confused, unintentional misogyny—the man has captured on film the unavoidable plight of the human condition, and he’s done so with both heart-stopping grace and unapologetic realism. You don’t have to depend on my word for it; he’s taken home more than a few golden statues for his efforts.

I was asked in a recent interview if I had a dream. I do. More than one reviewer of my book about a Wyoming sheriff in the modern age, Blood Land, has commented that the story begs to be made into a movie. I didn’t write it with such conversion in mind; it was just a story I always knew I had to tell. I have no particular wish for the book to be made into a film, however, if by some movement of the hand of God, Clint Eastwood were to approach me and ask to make a modern, twenty-first century movie about the real west? Well I can say, unequivocally, if nothing else ever happened to me, I would die a contented man.

My best guess is the chances of such a dream reaching fruition in the waking world are far longer than winning Powerball one day and then dying in a plane crash the next, and that’s okay by me. Some dreams are meant to remain just that—they motivate us to keep striving, to work harder, and to be better. They also keep us dreaming. Everyone must start somewhere—you, me, the writer first putting pen to paper, and yes, even John Wayne and Clint Eastwood. Me, I won’t hold my breath that a parody produced in Photoshop will ever actually resemble real-world success, but that doesn’t mean I won’t continue to endeavor to persevere (nor that the only measure of a writer’s success is whether or not a famous director makes his or her book into a motion picture).

You have to admit, though, the poster would look great.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.

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Author known to use spontaneous satire, sarcasm, and unannounced injections of pith or witticisms which may not be suitable for humorless or otherwise jest-challenged individuals. (Witticisms not guaranteed to be witty, funny, comical, hilarious, clever, scintillating, whimsical, wise, endearing, keen, savvy, sagacious, penetrating, fanciful, or otherwise enjoyable. The Surgeon General has determined through laboratory testing that sarcasm can be dangerous, even in small amounts, and should not be ingested by those who are serious, somber, pensive, weighty, funereal, unsmiling, poker-faced, sober, or pregnant.) For those who enjoy and/or revel in the utterance of profanity, the author reserves the right to substitute “fish” for “fuck” without fear of repercussion, mental reservation, or purpose of evasion.