Dancing Hooves and Velvet Noses: A Critical Review of "The Perfect Horse"

I really, really wanted to love this book.  What could be more to my tastes than a combination of horses, history, and literature? If anyone was predisposed towards Elizabeth Letts' The Perfect Horse: The Daring U.S. Mission to Rescue the Priceless Stallions Kidnapped by the Nazis, it would be me. I'd grown up among the Arabian ranches in Scottsdale, Arizona, and personally knew some of the people and the direct offspring of the horses featured in her book. I'll never forget being the horse-crazy child who thrilled to pet the face of Favory Dubwina, one of the imported Lipizzaner horses maintained at Equestrian Manor, where my seven-year-old self took riding lessons. I worked with Arabians professionally for years, and bred a few generations of them. I excitedly attended the touring Lipizzaner shows when they came to Phoenix and I'd met some of the riders, looking on them with star-struck eyes. And, more recently, I'd been reading a series of non-fiction works on World War II history, covering works on wartime Churchill and the rise of Nazi Germany. If anyone was going to enjoy The Perfect Horse, dammit, it'd be me.

But just pages into the book, I knew The Perfect Horse was destined to disappoint - and even to annoy me. I debated even writing a negative word about it on this, my unread blog. Elizabeth Letts worked hard and birthed a book that the vast majority of reviewers loved. They praised her research, her passion, and her eloquence. And I was but three pages in when I started to sigh and shake my head at the cliche-ridden, stylistically-painful tome. 

I use the word "tome" ironically here. How many people actually use the word tome unironically? Probably about as many as there are horsemen who carry sugar lumps in their pockets and refer to their horses as "steeds" and continually wax poetic about their prancing hooves, velvet noses, majestic presence, deep brown eyes, and full-throated whinny. And therein is what drove me utterly crazy about Letts' book: it's written like a bodice-ripper for horsewomen. No sentence is free of incessant strings of adjectives. There's no simple "blue sky," or even an azure sky; instead, every sky is radiant blue. The horses are imbued with human qualities and even prescience at every turn of phrase. Since no one knows what people were actually thinking or feeling during the moments she dwells upon with such full-throated ecstasy, Letts goes out of her way to fully describe what they must have been thinking, or how they would certainly have known. No one rises from his chair; they all spring, or leap, or coil. 

Lest you think I'm unduly harsh, here's a bodice-ripper sample for you, chosen randomly by just flipping the book open to page 44: "The stallion's crest was arched, his nose was perpendicular to the floor, and his hind legs were gathered underneath him, showing off the powerfully developed muscles in his massive hindquarters." Be still, my beating heart! I need a cigarette. (I've never smoked one, but how else to convey my quivering orgiastic sensation after reading such a purple passage?) Throughout the book, we have soldiers constantly stroking velvet noses, an act many real-life horsemen hesitate to engage in because it encourages nipping - especially in stallions - and when they aren't stroking velvety noses, they're "handing out lumps of sugar" to each horse, an even more egregious act of encouraging bad manners. That's not to say that these battle-hardened soldiers didn't carry sugar cubes in every pocket and constantly stuff them into all available velvety muzzles; it's just, well, unlikely. The velvet and sweetness prevails throughout the length of the book. On page 247, we have "Witez, with his velvety nose ..." and those velvety noses and their accompanying "soft whinnies and friendly nudges" were often greeted with "soothing words" from their human handlers. Your stallions have gotten loose together on a thrashing ship on stormy seas? Breathe soothing words at them!

The horses were ennobled and humanized to the point of hilarity. They constantly "seemed to understand the danger" or acted in such a way "as if to say ..." Their nostrils constantly trumpeted, and their hooves constantly stamped. Coats shone like burnished bronze. When first we meet Witez, we're introduced to his "luminous dark brown eyes" and his "delicate flaring nostrils." On page 266, "Witez cantered along a hillside trail, kicking up small puffs of dust with each stride. His coat shone with a coppery fire; his black tail floated behind him like plumes of blowing smoke." On 273, Witez's "large dark eyes" survey his kingdom as he shows his "well-shaped head and sculpted muzzle." Just three pages later, his "fine boned head turned, deep brown eyes lighting up in recognition" and he emits a "deep, full-throated whinny" with "dark eyes set off by an irregular white star, the curved ears that seemed almost to touch when he pricked them forward." Here we have a reunion, and Witez's "nostrils fluted, showing delicate pink inside," as he extends his velvety muzzle to be stroked by one of the soldiers who'd brought the horse to America. I am certain the man offered him a lump of sugar. The stallion deserved it, for he'd live on to be 27, when his "dappled coat shone and his tail floated on the soft California breeze." By page 280, I was inwardly groaning when I read, "The polished brass of his leather halter jingling as his hooved thumped on the ramp. He raised his head, flicked his ears, and trumpeted his pink-and-black speckled nostrils ... Picking a familiar face out of the crowd, he lowered his head and let out a warm whinny." Can we quit trumpeting nostrils, Bueller? How many flicked ears and deep dark eyes must we endure?

In between the soft-eyed-horse-porn full-throated whinnies and the floating tails, Letts actually introduces a lot of damned good information. It's a compelling story, for sure; precious bloodstock rescued from the clutches of brutal Nazis and delivered in a harrowing mission across the ocean to what turns out to be a rather uncaring America. Letts accompanies her text with an excellent selection of photographs of horses and men alike. But you must get past the constant cliches: "the cream of the crop," blending in "like a chameleon," "his face showed no emotion, but inside he was a nervous wreck," and "as still as porcelain statues." Letts brings a lot of solid characters to life, if you don't mind the repetition of paired adjectives. With proper editing, this 350-page book could have been an outstanding 250-page adventure. But somehow redundant and fluffy writing like this slipped past the editorial team - both of these examples are even on the same page, 117: "After one last lump of sugar, one last pat on the neck, Hank said goodbye to his ponies ..." and "Horsemen proffered an extra sugar lump, feeling the tickle of whiskers on the flat of their hands as they looked into their four-legged friends' inscrutable dark eyes." With a few cups less sugar and a lot less gazing into each others' dark eyes, Letts might have had a finely-written tale.

Would I discourage anyone from reading Letts' book? Absolutely not. It's worth it for the historical perspective and for the memory of the truly great Arabian and Lipizzaner stallions rescued during an inhumane war. Kudos to Elizabeth Letts for fully researching and retelling their story. If you'd like to form your own opinion, here's an affiliate link to buy your own copy through Amazon: The Perfect Horse. Heck, it's a New York Times Bestseller, and a winner of research non-fiction awards. You'll probably love it. But if you find the full-throated whinnies and dancing hooves a bit cloying, don't say I didn't warn you.

Harley Quinn Flies High in Birds of Prey

Let me just say this right up front: I liked Suicide Squad. I liked the pace, the characters, the screen writing, and most of all, I liked Margot Robbie's exuberant badassery as Harley Quinn. Robbie's got a golden touch and such undeniable charisma - a presence rarely seen in today's starlets - I'd give a film a chance just to enjoy Robbie's talent. Despite my annoyance with woke cinema, and my utter reluctance to see distaff reboots of B-list efforts, I'd been looking forward to Birds of Prey. It wasn't because the trailer was particularly appealing; it wasn't. It wasn't because I love every super-hero and super-villain film around; I don't. It's because of the potential to do great things with the Harley Quinn / Margot Robbie winning ticket.

The film opened in theaters just three days ago. Not one to enjoy crowds, I waited until this afternoon - a Monday - in hopes of a quiet venue at the Imax. It was, in fact, so quiet that my friend and I had the theater to ourselves other than two other women who, as luck would have it, were actually sitting in the two exact seats my friend and I selected (even though the other two gals bought their tickets and selected their seats first). Go figure. In this near-empty theater, the four of us sat in a knot and waited through an exhaustively long preview for another film before Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) opened.

I opted not to read anyone's review prior to the film; so often reviews are much of the same refrain. I couldn't tell you if critics liked it or not. As for me, I give it two baseball bats up. Despite the frenetic jump-cut pace, the beginning scenes were tedious enough, but as the film warmed up and the plot solidified, I warmed up to the film as well. It's a fun film, humor-filled and visually a treat. The cast, from Margot Robbie to Ewan McGregor, was capable, with Rosie Perez as the tough-as-nails perpetually-underappreciated detective, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead as "the Huntress" deserving special mention. Robbie, of course, steals the show in every appearance. As an especially physical actress, she uses her body to command the scenes much as Johnny Depp does in his productions. She's simply great fun to watch.

In film, just as with literature, I appreciate allusions to other works. References to Reservoir Dogs were clear in Birds of Prey: the villain, Ewan McGregor's Roman Sionis, had a half-dancing way of moving that called back to Michael Madsen's twisted Mr. Blonde, and the famous three-way standoff of Dogs is re-created in Birds. Glimpses of The Warriors shine through at times, and shades of buddy-squad films such as The Magnificent Seven are perhaps present. Yet despite these and other references to past films, Birds of Prey has its own distinctive style and approach. Much of it has to do with the "woman's touch" in the production. Written by Christina Hodson, directed by Cathy Yan, and starring an all-woman squad of badass criminals and crime-fighters, the film does a largely admirable job of presenting uniquely female motivations and plot lines. These aren't just women chosen for their physical beauty; some, such as Rosie Perez's character, are surprisingly relatable. They kick ass when fighting, but in some beautifully gymnastic ways, choreographed well to highlight agility and legginess.

The soundtrack features female musicians and female-themed songs throughout. Paying homage to rockers like Joan Jett and Pat Benatar, the music is as capably done as the soundtrack to Deadpool. Nothing is lost by the emphasis on female characters, plot lines, or contributors to the film. It's no Ghostbusters on estrogen, nor is it simply a wokey-wokey version of The Avengers. However, it does slip into heavy-handedness in one jarringly unnecessary line: Ellen Jay Basco's Cassandra Cain, aka "the kid," painfully blurts out something to the effect of, "You're not the only one making money off dumb white men." How refreshing it would have been to watch a newer film that, just once, doesn't bask in the "white men evil" fad. The film is good enough on its own merits that it doesn't need to call on tired female empowerment / male toxicity standbys. The diverse cast is a success because they're good entertainers, not because they're diverse; they stand on their own, with perhaps the exception of Basco. Given a relatively ineffectual character to play, Basco isn't charismatic enough or skillful enough at delivering her lines to make the "kid" sympathetic.

It's a shame the film played to such an empty theater. It deserves better. Far better than Suicide Squad, perhaps it's tainted by association with that generally ill-received film. It offers satisfying fight scenes, likable characters, hatable villains, a tolerable story line, plenty of pyrotechnics, and a soundtrack that'll keep you wanting to rock long after the lights come on. Most of all, it has the hyper-talented Margot Robbie as the hyper-charming Harley Quinn. It doesn't take itself too seriously, and for high-energy escapism, you won't go away disappointed.

Midnight Cowboy, 51 Years Later

In recent months I've been catching up on films, good and bad, that I missed when they were released but that influenced culture in a variety of ways. Although I never saw Midnight Cowboy until tonight - I was six when it was released - I grew up with an appreciation of its impact on cinema, and with a vague awareness of its plot. I'd forgotten - or maybe I never knew? - it was X-rated on release. I knew   critics applauded Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman for their gritty, pathos-bathed performances. I knew they portrayed hustlers in the flophouse districts of Manhattan, although I'd always thought they were explicitly and solely gay hustlers.

I didn't know how very stark I'd find the film. Having recently watched Joker I can say Cowboy makes Joker seem uplifting. They share themes of lonely misfits trying to forge a humble path in an uncaring and insensitive world, where alienation and survival override abiding by laws and social mores. Unlike Arthur Fleck, Enrico "Ratzo" Rizzo and Joe Buck find friendship and solidarity in each other's company. Their humanity is a jarring contrast to the absence of it in Joker. They're losers, but they're losers who care and sacrifice for each other.

John Schlesinger glamorizes nothing about the film. The marvel of it is how little the characters have to offer in the way of redeeming qualities. Joe Buck isn't a savant; he's a barely-literate mentally-slow dishwasher. There's no hidden genius or talent behind his faux-cowboy visage. He sees the "Mutual of New York" neon sign, the first letters of each word emphasized, and believes it spells "Mony." He writes the letter "e" backwards. He struggles to understand, and he's fool enough to think he's going to make it big in the city.

Ratzo, a tubercular who lives not on the kindness of others but on their turned backs, vacillates between fearfulness and longing. He's neither witty nor charming. Yet despite Rizzo and Buck's character flaws and sleaziness, they're sympathetic beings. They invoke compassion and sadness and an overwhelming urge to wash one's hands in hot water.

Today, such a film would hardly shock, much less be considered for an X rating. The performances hold up after so many years, but seem "stagey" and more theatrical than cinematic. This isn't a criticism; it's refreshing. Perhaps my greatest surprise was the understated homoerotic themes, having grown up hearing references to the film's homosexual story line. Instead, Ratzo and Joe share a loving relationship based on friendship and caring. Of the many sex scenes in the film, the only two characters who truly care for each other do not participate at all.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood: Favorite Allusions and References

This past year found me more at a disconnect with less-vintage generations than I've felt before. It manifested in the expected, time-worn ways: opposing politics and values; a difference in technological choices and abilities; and generational rivalries. It was the first year, though, that I noticed vast differences of opinions regarding films. Never one to hold critics and reviewers in contempt as a default mode, I've long appreciated thoughtful and well-written reviews. In recent months I noticed two patterns: One, that every film has to be judged now on wokeness as well as film-making quality; and second, that today's writers on the film beat just do not appreciate the movies I love.

As soon as I saw the trailers for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I was instantly smitten. It wasn't the all-star leading lineup that took hold of me, nor even the fact it was a Tarantino film (whom I unabashedly adore). I was hooked on the wistful, joyful nostalgia that shone through. Here was a film that clearly paid tribute to the series, movies, and events I grew up watching. Here, among all the all-female reboots and tenth-generation sequels that Hollywood has spawned in recent years, was a jewel of an original. For the first time in years, I eagerly awaited a movie release date. 

Once did not disappoint. Every minute offered an exuberant take on Hollywood characters and industry, overlaid on a tapestry of the culture and personalities of 1969. I fail to understand the reviewers who felt it lacked plot or depth; I found both. DiCaprio and Pitt turned out stellar performances of men struggling with their midlife career challenges, and ever-watchable Margot Robbie delighted with each sunny scene she graced. But best of all, for boomers such as myself, were the wondrous allusions and references to past events and films buried within the script and set design. 

As I gathered the subtler references that delighted me so, I realized here may be why the film didn't thrill the younger reviewers as much as it did me: Perhaps, not having grown up watching dusty reruns of western series in the 70s, or having missed reading the horrors of the Manson murders as they were reported the days immediately after, the reviewers simply didn't "get" many of the allusions. Perhaps they did, and simply found the boomer-oriented, unfashionably white film relevant.  For those who enjoyed it as I did, here's a retrospective of my favorite such allusions and buried gems within the film. For those who didn't enjoy it (and if so, why the heck are you reading this?) here are some of the interesting details you might have missed.

The Title

The very name Once Upon a Time in Hollywood hearkens back to the spaghetti-westerns made in the 1960s, specifically referring to Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West. DiCaprio's character, of course, was a fading star of Bounty Law, a Rifleman-like series who revives his stardom and financial standing by traveling to Rome to make spaghetti westerns. Leone, by the way, also made Once Upon a Time in America. The choice of "Once Upon a Time" is, of course, a reference to a fairy tale - and with Tarantino's version of events in Once, a fairy tale happy ending can be had after all. That's the thing about Tarantino: He thinks on several levels, and analyzing his films always brings some symbolic or metaphoric surprises.

The Series within the Film ... and the Starring Motorcyclist 

While we are captivated by the decline of Rick Dalton, DiCaprio's character, we also find ourselves enjoying the plot of an episode of Lancer, a western in which Dalton guest stars as a villain. Lancer was (in real life) a popular series running from 1968 to 1970, one of many family-legacy types of westerns. Starring James Stacy as the gunslinger brother, Johnny Madrid, Lancer (like so many westerns of the time) featured the usual heavy-handed patriarch; diametrically-opposed brothers; and a headstrong, lovable sister. 

Within Once, we see the Johnny Madrid character as acted by the latest flavor-of-the-month popular hunky star, James Stacy (played by Timothy Olyphant). Dalton is now aware he's being put up against Stacy so Stacy can benefit from being seen as "killing off" the star of the past, Dalton. After cutting away from the episode Dalton guest stars, Tarantino briefly shows the James Stacy character leaving the set, putting on his helmet, and climbing onto his motorcycle. The scene is so subtle and inconsequential, it almost seems out of place ... but true movie buffs will revel in that moment, for real-life James Stacy, on September 28, 1973, climbed on his motorcycle for one last time. With his girlfriend, Clair Cox, behind him on the bike, Stacy's bike was struck head-on by a motorist who'd been drinking at a bar called "The Chopping Block." Cox was killed instantly, and James Stacy nearly died. As a result of the gruesome wreck, he lost his left leg and his left arm. 

Prior to the wreck, James Stacy had been a Hollywood favorite. From 1968 - 1969 he'd been married to Kim Darby, who starred in one of my favorite westerns from childhood - the original True Grit. Before that, from 1963 - 1966, he'd been married to actress Connie Stevens. Suddenly, with the wreck, his leading-man status was gone. Although he did return to acting despite his amputations, he would never again be the star he was. Shortly after the wreck, Connie Stevens (who remained a good friend to him) was among the celebrities who organized a fundraiser for him. Later, Stacy sued the Chopping Block Bar for damages for over-serving the drunk driver who hit him; he received $1.9 million. 

The real James Stacy in 1968, before tragedy struck. 

Connie Stevens is also portrayed in Once, played by Dreama Walker. Tarantino, who credits his audience with being able to draw lines between the dots in his films, doesn't dwell on any of these connections, but they're neatly present nonetheless.

In another sad sidenote to the James Stacy story, Stacy served six years in prison later in his life for molesting an eleven-year-old child (and stalking others). Knowing he was facing prison time, he flung himself off a cliff in a suicide attempt in Hawaii. The ultimate survivor, the double-amputee survived the fall and lived until 2016, when he died at age 79.

Paul Revere and the Raiders

Several references were made to the music of Paul Revere and the Raiders in the scenes showing Sharon Tate (played deftly by Margot Robbie) in the house at 10050 Cielo Drive. That house, where the Manson murders of Sharon Tate and friends occurred in real life, had been previously occupied by record producer Terry Melcher. Terry is referenced several times in the film, as Charles Manson visits the neighborhood trying to track him down. Terry's roommates in the home were his girlfriend, Candice Bergen, and his friend Mark Lindsay. Mark Lindsay was the lead singer for the band Paul Revere and the Raiders. In Once, Sharon Tate and company play and dance to records by the band; Brad Pitt's character, Clifford Booth, listens to them from the rooftop of the house next door. Four of the band's songs are featured in the film.

A little more trivia: Terry Melcher was also the son of Doris Day.

Red Apple Tobacco

One of the great product placements of filmdom, Red Apple Tobacco shows up in several of Tarantino's films. He doesn't reap the rewards of advertising money for highlighting it, though - it only exists in Tarantino's world. The cigarettes, distinctively packaged in a pack with a seedy-looking worm protruding from an apple, appear in Once's commercials-within-the-film, promoted by Rick Dalton. The full commercial is a bonus feature on the DVD version. Don't look for Red Apple Tobacco at your favorite vendors - but look for it on Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, The Hateful Eight, and Inglourious Basterds, among other QT films.

The Narrator 

Midway through Once, the format of the film shifts and a narrator takes over, verbally time-stamping events of the film and describing the action. (That narrator, Kurt Russell, also plays a casting director in the film.) The narrative device occurs as the film shifts to the events of the night of August 8, 1969 - the night of the Manson Family murders of Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger, Steven Parent, and Wojtek Frykowski at 10050 Cielo Drive. The change to a narrator-driven format provides a sense of urgency to the events at hand, and builds suspense. It's also familiar to cinema buffs, for it was used to great effect in Goodfellas. Tarantino employs it as yet another tribute to great films. 

The Wilhelm Scream

Movie buffs immediately recognize the famous Wilhelm Scream - that stock "aaaaaargghhhh" scream used originally in a 1951 film, and inserted routinely in films since. At first used because it was a terrifically hideous male scream, it later became a tradition for filmmakers to include it in their films. Listen for it in Once.

The Flame Thrower

The infamous flame thrower from Rick Dalton's appearance in "The 14 Fists of McCluskey" makes a grand entrance at the film's climax. Look for it earlier leaning against the wall in Dalton's backyard cabana / shed when Cliff Booth is rustling up supplies to fix the antenna on the roof.

The Rolling Stones "Out of Time"

As we watch Margot Robbie's Sharon Tate approaching the film's climax, the Rolling Stones' sing the words, "Baby, baby, baby, you're out of time," in a haunting warning. It's almost heartbreakingly poignant. It's one of my favorite accompaniments on the soundtrack, so perfectly incorporated into the film's foray between real life and historical revision.

Another Clu

One of the standbys of 1960s TV western series was rugged, good-looking Clu Gulager. He shows up as a bookstore proprietor in Once, talking literature with Sharon Tate. His brief appearance is dignified and avuncular, unlike the wonderfully crude George Spahn played by my favorite villain, Bruce Dern. Although Burt Reynolds was Tarantino's original choice for Spahn, he died before filming. Dern steals the show in typical gritty Dern style, an irascible old man untroubled by etiquette (or polite society),

The Manson Family

Volumes have been written on the background of Charlie and his murderous family, and much could be written regarding the characters they inspired in the film. Highlights in Once include "Squeaky," played chillingly by Dakota Fanning. Squeaky is inspired by Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme, the family member who served decades in prison for her attempt on the life of President Gerald Ford. Squeaky, the first member of Charlie's family, engaged in multiple offenses outside the Manson cult as well. "Tex" Watson is another of the film's well-portrayed cult members. The member of the clan who runs away and leaves Cielo Drive in the car when the situation became all too real appears to be an interpretation of Linda Kasabian, the member who testified against them when the murders went to trial. In real life, Linda did not run away, although she testified that she would have, had her small child not been back at Spahn Ranch. Tarantino's composite had either the moral fiber or the self-interest to do so. 

One of the real-life Manson victims was a 6'4" stunt man by name of Donald "Shorty" Shea, a ranch hand at Spahn Ranch. Clifford Booth's suspenseful visit to the ranch alludes to the man's presence at Spahn Ranch. Like Booth's character, Shea's career was dwindling, but the fictional Booth fared better. Shea was tortured and brutally killed, his corpse remaining concealed and unrecovered for nearly a decade afterwards.

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