Dances With Wolves

Some critics complain that Dances With Wolves is overlong, sentimental, and tacky, with an air of pretension and political correctness that overwhelms the movie, oversimplifying the frontier depicted, overly demonizing the Union soldiers, and painting the Native Americans too sympathetically. Blah blah blah.

Others call Dances With Wolves Kevin Costner's finest hour, a modern epic, reflecting on the death of the American frontier and the passing of indigenous culture.

I'm in the latter group. Though this cut is nearly four hours long, watching this film never feels like a chore, and always feels like time well spent. We must face our history now and again, and though Dances With Wolves is chock full of anachronisms and other errors, frankly, so is the official history of these United States.

My parents rented this film on VHS back in 1991. This was a two-tape rental, which took us a whole evening of stopping for popcorn and bathroom breaks and other home video privileges, but we watched as a family. I remember Mom really enjoying this film. When Dunbar was chasing Two Socks around the prairie, she said, "Dances With Wolves" with this kind of peaceful confidence. She knew Dunbar's "real" name before we made the connection. Mom always figures stuff out like that.

Some of my best memories take place in front of our old console television, and I could not possibly thank my parents enough for nurturing my love of film just by bringing home a stack of rentals every weekend for years. I can still see Dad, sitting on the end of the couch, spitcan in one hand, VCR remote in the other, and Mom, sitting in the recliner or our old yellow rocker, at the other end of the room, usually smoking and reading while keeping one eye on the television. I learned to lie on the floor in front of the TV, not only because of all the smoke, but also because I couldn't see — I should've gotten glasses at a much earlier age, but I never complained.

Millions of people in the Midwest likely have some sort of indigenous blood. I'm part Cherokee on Mom's side, I think. I don't know the genealogy that well, though. Mom used to do exhaustive research at the kitchen table — genealogy books everywhere, diagrams and family trees. I never paid much attention, and in fact the whole obsession sort of drove me crazy. Now I just realize she was passionate about something. She's a passionate person, like me, but we're passionate about different things. We don't understand each other very well.

I'm a bizarre melange of cultures — Irish, Cherokee, German, English, Dutch, and most of all American hillbilly. Take away the English and the German and I'm a bunch of oppressed and defeated peoples. I tend to think that explains a lot about my personality.

The themes explored in Dances With Wolves continue to echo in American cinema. A lot of people compared Avatar to Dances With Wolves this year, myself included. Avatar, while good, wasn't anything original, and now that I've re-watched Dances With Wolves, I realize that's not a bad thing. I also realize how similar Dances With Wolves is to Lawrence of Arabia.

We need films like Lawrence of Arabia, Dances With Wolves, and Avatar to remind us of what we are capable of doing to each other. So what if the three films are similar? People need to be reminded at least once a generation, if not more. We are violent, horrible beings at our worst, and compassionate friends and family at our best. We are capable of miracles. We forget.

I used to list five films that made me cry, but stopped keeping track because, well, what's the point? This isn't some sports statistic or competition or badge of honor. If a film gets you, then let it. Still, I feel like I opened that can of worms when I covered Braveheart. Dances With Wolves got me too, and harder. There are a few more I'll get to someday.

The worst is watching the scene with the Union soldiers shooting at Two Socks. I feel a brief, fleeting hope that all will be well when the Lakota are revealed over the ridge, but then I lose hope when they cut back to reveal Two Socks, curled up as if asleep in the grass, and I know he's gone.

I like to think that last wolf at the end, silhouetted against the sky and mournfully howling, is Two Socks, either still alive somehow, or passing through the wilderness on his ascent, staying near Dances With Wolves the whole way. I need that peace.

Dances With Wolves is a true modern epic, and yes, this film is sentimental and politically correct, and I don't mind. Few films stir me like this one. I need this.