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REVIEWS, Page 72CINEMAReturn to a Lost World
By RICHARD SCHICKEL
TITLE: THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS
DIRECTOR: Michael Mann
WRITERS: Michael Mann and Christopher Crowe
THE BOTTOM LINE: The saga of James Fenimore Cooper's
heroic Hawkeye is retold on a grand scale.
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the. . .
Oops. Wrong boring American classic. But Longfellow's
lines are appropriate nevertheless to a consideration of Michael
Mann's ravishing realization of The Last of the Mohicans. From
its first images of a deer hunt to its last shots of hero and
heroine gazing westward toward mist-shrouded mountains, the
film's sensuous evocations of an Arcadian wilderness draw us
into a remote realm -- just as the need to penetrate the majesty
and mystery of that landscape draws its characters irresistibly
on to fates ennobling and tragic.
Perhaps the poignancy of these images derives from our
sense that we are looking into a world now almost entirely lost.
Perhaps it derives as well from the memories they stir of movie
glories past, when sweeping historical spectacle was a cinematic
commonplace. Then again, it may simply be the crazy nerve of
this project that disarms one's critical faculties: the French
and Indian Wars; a protagonist named Hawkeye; a red-coated
English army marching in straight stupid lines through the
forest; wily Indian enemies skittering through the underbrush,
a menace not only to the soldiery but to virtuous femininity as
well.
Director Mann says his first potent movie memory is of the
1936 screen adaptation of the book (with Randolph Scott). He
has gone farther than the older picture did in straightening
and strengthening the plot -- about a besieged fort, the
ill-timed attempt of the commandant's daughter to join her
father there and the anarchy that follows his surrender. Even
Magua, the treacherous Indian villain of the piece, played with
deadly relish by Wes Studi, is given a good motive for his
dastardliness, the dignity of his otherness and even allowed a
nanosecond of pity for one of his victims. Above all Mann has
seen to it that something spooky, suspenseful or just plain
action packed happens every five minutes. In the process he has
eliminated the last traces of Cooper's high-viscosity prose and
sentiments.
As a result, the novelist's only immortal achievement,
Hawkeye, who was born Natty Bumppo in a colonial settlement but
was raised by a Mohican family, has at last a context worthy of
his importance as a mythic figure. This character, blending the
Old World tradition of gallantry with the New World's belief in
the moral supremacy of those who live in close harmony with
nature, is our Ur-frontiersman, the archetype on whom everyone
from William S. Hart to Clint Eastwood has fashioned his
variations.
But Daniel Day Lewis plays the character as if he were
entirely unaware of the heroic line that derives from Hawkeye.
This innocence leaves open the interesting possibility that, not
knowing any better, he might implode under pressure instead of
exploding into more predictable action. Conversely, Madeleine
Stowe, playing the commandant's elder daughter, for whom earlier
versions of Hawkeye have had only a distant admiration, invests
her character with a sureness about her needs and a moral
courage that is very much up to date. Mann rewards them with
actual sexual contact, quietly yet fiercely staged, that is a
wonderful, even startling, break with tradition.
Whether it was because we were young or the movies were
young or the world was at least youngish, old-fashioned
Hollywood history was exhilarating. In retrospect there is
something alarming about its simplicities and the enthusiasm we
brought to it. It is the great virtue of this grandly scaled yet
deliriously energetic movie that it reanimates that long-ago
feeling without patronizing it -- and without making us think
we will wake up some day once again embarrassed by it.