is certainly correct about modern artnand poetry. At their best, they don”probe new frontiers” of the imagination..nMore typically, they shatternsomething more serious than preconceptions.nSo much of modern literaturenand art has been informed bynhatred of the way things are, not just innthis historical period, but throughoutnhuman history. Distinctions of sex andnclass might have been with us from thenmoment we quit sleeping in the trees.nNo matter, our artists and intellectualsnhave a better idea. Private propertynand nations? Gone with the samenwinds that blew in dada and absurdism.nCourage, loyalty, and respect fornwomen—these are all preconceptionsnto be shattered. In fact, art has declarednwar on whateer simple andnordinary people cling to, their religiousnfaith, their affection for theirncommunity, and devotion to theirnfamily.nIt was not always so. The great poetsnand sculptors of antiquity—Homer,nSophocles, Vergil, Phidias, andnPraxiteles—all served their communitiesnand gave new and richer expressionnto the common ideals. Artistsnwere not rebels until the Romanticnera, and even then the best of themnaffirmed the values and traditions ofntheir nations. Walter Scott began hisnliterary career as a collector of ballads,nwhile the rebels, Wordsworth andnColeridge, attempted to restore thenlanguage of everyday speech in lyricnpoetry. Scott was always a Tory;nWordsworth and Coleridge ended upnalmost as reactionaries.nEven in this century, our greatestnarhsts have been traditionalists andnreactionaries who affirmed the goodnessnof their national and local traditions.nOne thinks immediately ofnYeats, Eliot, and Faulkner, of CharlesnPeguy and the author of And QuietnFlows the Don. Picasso at his best wasna loyal Spaniard.nYet somehow the aberrant equationnof art and iconoclasm has gained governmentnsupport in contemporarynAmerica—and not just in California.nAnyone who has driven along Interstaten80 in Nebraska and has seen thenpublicly funded modern sculpturenfound at the rest stops knows thatnthings are much the same in middlenAmerica. Civen the location of Nebraska’snsculptures, they may havenbeen vandalized, but as with muchnmodern art it’s impossible to tell. InnNew York these days, public galleriesnnow let “graffiti artists” receive commissionsnfor doing in a clean welllightednplace what they previouslynrisked jail for doing in subways.nPerhaps by subsidizing local initiatives,nCalifornia will encourage a newngeneration of Scotts and Phidiases,ninstead of the pretentious vandalismnwe have learned to expect from statesupportednartists. ccnThe French government is out tonmake amends for its relendess attacknon American culture. It is true that innthe past they decorated the likes ofnJerry Lewis and William Styron, butnnow—in a surprise reversal — theynhave decided to honor a great Americannartist, Clint Eastwood, as a chevalierndes Artes et Lettres. Everyone isndiscovering Eastwood’s virtues — innEngland the Guardian called him andie-hard liberal. He has yet to win annOscar, but the time may be almostnright. If culture minister Jack Langnthought this award was another jokenon the American people, he was mistaken.nEastwood, more than anyone innthe film community, has dedicated hisncareer to exploring the character of thenAmerican people. In the whole realmnof the arts, he may be the best thingnwe’ve got in the 1980’s.nMost people associate Eastwoodnwith “Dirty Harry,” the tough copnwho refuses to play by the rules. Somenhave gone so far as to say that his onlynmessage is the self-reliance of the vigilante.nHow true that is even of DirtynHarry remains to be seen, but vigilantismndoes not have much to do withnEastwood’s strangest films. BronconBilly, Honkytonk Man, and The Outlawnjosey Wales. In ]osey Wales, it’sntrue, Eastwood played a Confederatenguerrilla who practically takes on thenwhole U.S. Army after the war, butnwhy? In the unforgettable openingnscenes, a hardworking Missouri farmernsees his family murdered, his housenburned to the ground. He recoversnfrom his suicidal anguish only whennBloody Bill Anderson (whose life storynresembles Josey Wales) offers him annopportunity for revenge. It is not violencenper se that the film celebrates,nbut the defense of a way of life. In thennnend, Josey Wales adopts a group ofnstrays and begins a new life with a newnfamily.nEastwood’s best heroes—includingnDirty Harry—have all lived the normalnlife of a family man but whosendomestic world has been shattered byntragedy. Bronco Billy had been a shoensalesman in New Jersey until hencaught his wife in bed with anothernman. His revenge cost him a stretch innthe penitentiary, where he began tondream of creating a wild West show.nNone of the members of his troupe arenthe real thing—any more than BronconBilly—but, as one of them explains,nthe wild West show is the place wherenyou can become what you want to be.nJust in case we think it’s all illusion,nBilly actually foils a bank holdup bynshooting the gun out of the robber’snhand.nIn a final scene worthy of Fellini,nBilly puts on his show under a tentnmade out of American flags sewn togethernby the criminally insane. (Theynwanted to help him out after his tentnburned, but flags were the only thingnthey knew how to make.) Billy’s advicento “the little pards” in the audiencen—to drink their milk and listen tonMom and Dad—is almost straight outnof the Boy Scout Handbook, but in thenbizarre context Eastwood gets awaynwith it.nClint Eastwood’s America is an almostnJeffersonian vision of decentncountry folks, hardworking men andnwomen, and above all, of families. If,nin his cop movies, he is saying that itntakes a Dirty Harry to preserve thatnway of life, then it is easy to understandnwhy he is so popular amongnBlacks, who know, perhaps better thannanyone, what it means to live with thenugly consequences of failed Utopiannsocial policies.nNow, when everyone is busy discoveringnEastwood the actor, Eastwoodnthe auteur, and (fantastically) Eastwoodnthe liberal, it is high time thatnsomeone recognized him for what henis: the moral conscience of the Americannentertainment industry. I almostnhope he doesn’t win an Oscar; he’s toongood for it. (TJF) ccnJUNE 1985/37n