John Ford’s Cavalry Trilogy: “Fort Apache” (1948)/”She Wore a Yellow Ribbon” (1949)/”Rio Grande” (1950)
“You say someone’s called me the greatest poet of the Western saga. I am not a poet, and I don’t know what a Western saga is. I would say that is horseshit.” As glimpsed in nearly every interview during his lifetime, including this New Republic one, John Ford kept his ornery perspective more than grounded when it came to analyzing his own work. This could explain why the director saw nothing unique or connected in his so-called Cavalry Trilogy—“Fort Apache”, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” and “Rio Grande”—other than that they all take place on American Cavalry forts, and are based on stories by James Warner Bellah.
Behind-the-scenes records support Ford’s claim: the only reason “Rio Grande” even went into production was contractual obligation, but the film historians who remain the primary advocates of a unified Cavalry Trilogy have a strong case too. An emphasis on the individual in military duty, a consistent stable of actors in similar roles, and musical motifs from composers Richard Hageman and Victor Young all feature heavily into the three films. Bypass the creaky depictions of Native Americans (still far more balanced here than in Ford’s prior work), and the films also reveal a surprising thread of commentary on warmongering and American colonialism. Each film in this Western trilogy essentially follows John Wayne as a character in the American army post-Civil War, “Fort Apache” sees him attempting as a Captain to stop an Apache massacre from taking place. “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon” charts an aging Captain as he embarks on one last mission to quell a reservation breakout; and we then finally glide through to “Rio Grande” where, as a Lieutenant Colonel, Wayne is a broken old man separated from his wife (Maureen O’Hara) and child for 15 years. Victor McLaglen, Harry Carey Jr., Ben Johnson, and Mildred Natwick all inhabit colorful supporting roles throughout, and Ford brings a host of symbolism, both religious and historical, that elevates the films to a lasting station in his filmography.
Federico Fellini’s Trilogy Of Loneliness: “La Strada” (1954)/“Il Bidone” (1955)/“The Nights of Cabiria” (1957)
Poignant, touching, and emotionally rich, the tragic nature of Federico Fellini’s Trilogy of Loneliness arguably elevates it above some of his greater known works like “8 ½” and “Amarcord.” Part of his early neorealist bent that predated the fanciful poetic realism of more surreal works, the three films in Fellini’s loose trilogy are “La Strada,” “Il Bidone” and “Nights of Cabiria” and all center on a class of misfits and outsiders on the fringes of society.
A heartbreaking “Beauty and the Beast”-like dichotomy, “La Strada” involves a faithful young girl (Fellini’s wife Giulietta Masina) being sold to a cruel circus performer (Anthony Quinn) by her poverty-stricken family for a plate of pasta; the fucked-up co-dependent relationship that forms; and the hardships they both endure scraping to get by. Fellini follows “La Strada” with “Il Bidone,” which chronicles a group of professional swindlers also trying to carve out a meager existence, and the lead con man for whom the personal consequences are ultimately devastating. Lastly there’s “Nights Of Cabiria” which re-teamed Fellini with his wife, again as a prostitute with a heart of gold, dreaming and grasping for a better life, rounding out the director’s three must-see meditations on hope and survival in Italy.
Andrzej Wadja’s War Trilogy: “A Generation” (1954)/”Kanal” (1956)/”Ashes and Diamonds” (1958)
The Stalinist ‘50s marked an advance for Polish cinema onto a world stage, and filmmaker Andrzej Wadja is due much of the credit. His War Trilogy shone an unflinching spotlight on WWII and the Polish resistance as they bravely fought off German occupation after the British withdrew from the country. Even up to recent years with his 2007 film, “Katyn,” Wadja has understandably chosen to linger in this period, bringing an intimate eye to the stories behind Stalin’s war crimes (especially with “Katyn,” as Wadja’s father was one of the victims of the real-life events portrayed in the film). But never do the films stray into overly revisionist history or rabble-rousing histrionics. Instead, Wadja employs an array of deceptively simple images to build to a crushing emotional punch each time.
“A Generation” sees a young factory worker (Tadeusz Lomnicki) turn down the road of activism; in the grand scheme of the trilogy, it is a conventionally told but powerful account of such a narrative. However, it is when Wadja elaborates on the Resistance with “Kanal” and “Ashes and Diamonds” that the themes of steadfast survival against hopelessness really take shape. “Watch them closely, for these are the last hours of their lives,” reads the opening narration of “Kanal,” and both films handle that fatalism with tremendous technique. Wadja even crafted a host of clever double interpretations in order for the trilogy to pass the censors: in “Ashes and Diamonds” one of the characters dies atop a pile of garbage, and Wadja said later the only clear meaning for audiences was that “whoever raises his hand against People’s Poland will end up on the rubbish heap of history.” The attempt worked, the film was passed uncut, and Wadja’s scathing perspective lives on to this day.
