APRIL 11, 2008 - VOL. 1, ISSUE 10

With farms there comes farmers, and with them the tropes of a traditional American lifestyle. Good, wholesome, God fearing folk who work the land and follow in their father's footsteps. These statements are not meant in conceit, but merely to express the image that is projected by many inhabitants of small agricultural communities. As a native of one such Midwestern town I grew up around the double lives of small town people: the imagined and the reality. To disseminate this idyllic myth of American life one should begin with this projected image, the maintained stereotype, which is precisely what filmmaker Louis Malle does in his intimate portrait of Glencoe, Minnesota in God's Country.

A beautiful garden and the elderly woman tending it is the first thing we see. Behind the camera we hear Malle inquiring about its upkeep, and the responses paint the picture of Glencoe before we are ever off this woman's lawn. She likes this quiet life; she likes keeping near to nature and things that grow. She tells us her family tried to convince her to move to the city, but that life isn't for her. In the background a man is snapping photographs of the interview, his car pulled over, the doors still open. A camera crew is not a regular fixture in this place. Soon after we'll meet up with the deputy sheriff who'll say that city life was full of drugs and violence. Here in Glencoe there is only the occasional underage drinking. A dairy farmer says he came from the city, but will never return. He's grown too fond of the quiet, the peace, the regulars and fixtures of the area. This constitutes the aforementioned image, together with narrative statistics of Glencoe; five thousand inhabitants, homogeneous community of 80 percent Germans, nine churches- two catholic, seven protestant, we have our idyllic community to investigate.

Malle claims to have stopped in Glencoe because of that beautiful garden, the film it can be assumed, is the result of an extended stay in town. It starts in 1976, kicking off at the county fair where Malle will make several acquaintances that come to illustrate the community and who befriend Malle both on and off screen. These everyday Glencoeans come from all strata of the area, though the majority are farmers. One such couple, Jim and Bev McIntern, are the youngest farmers in the county and invite Malle to tour their home and grounds as he asks them about life in Glencoe. "How old were you when you got married?" he asks, and "Is farming hard work?" Their answers are thorough, personal, and friendly. Yet the questions don't stay on the surface forever. In these moments with the McInterns we get our first inkling of the reality of Glencoe beyond the monetary day-to-day struggles of its citizens. Malle puts it to Jim that he notices all the people are white; he asks if blacks have a place here. Jim says they do not, and adds that we, assuming he means Glencoeans, and they, blacks, just don't get along. The banality of his manner is more startling than the suddenness of the topic's arrival. No jingoistic sentiments are ever aroused; no vulgar language is employed or stereotypes recounted. It's just plain and simple: no blacks here.

Another such moment comes out of a close up bedroom interview with Jean, a "free spirit" as Malle describes her, who works part time as a bartender. Malle gets her to discuss her problems with Glencoe, her renunciation of her Catholic faith, and suddenly the floodgates are opened and the negative opinions of one individual regarding her hometown pour forth. She laments about the chauvinism of small town men, the machismo culture that is born from bread-earning men and housekeeping wives. Jean informs us of the hypocrisy and xenophobia found in such small communities, made up of almost entirely Anglo Christians. When Malle asks her about homosexuals in Glencoe she responds with the advice that they should not tell anyone, and that perhaps they could be happy living a double life in nearby Minneapolis. These few examples don't even begin to illustrate the complex and diverse cast of God's Country. However they do give a decent account of some of the more potent issues boiling under the surface of that projected image.

A little more than halfway through the film, Malle cuts to his return six years later in 1985. As he retraces his steps and reunites with his old friends a different Glencoe is painted, one marked by despair and bitterness. If any pointed political statement is to come from the film, it is here. As we come back to the farms we find that they are struggling to keep their heads above water. Faced with economic ruin, our friend Jim McIntern confesses he doesn't know how much longer he'll be a farmer. The comments on financial stress and foreclosures soon lead to a discussion of Ronald Reagan and his economics. Well, more of a tirade than a conversation. Malle shows us face after face complaining about the President; most tell us they are conservative Republicans who voted for him. The fear is explicit: that trickle down economics, increased county taxes, and the looming multi-trillion dollar deficit are going to erase their way of life. The farmer may be on his way out the door. Malle spends less time on this subject than others. He is clearly content with showing liberals and conservatives joining together in their frustration and resentment of President Reagan. Together they form the proverbial "small guy," joined together in their oppression by "the man." Apparently, such is the cross that the small-towners bear.

Here we have it. Malle has pealed off the shiny veneer of American life to reveal the termites and the rot. But Malle is a humanist through and through. The honest and integrity of the portraits painted in God's Country suggest that Malle never intended to convict the Midwest or the American working class. He set out to capture one town and he did. Though he is not to be mistaken for an apologist, he merely loves these people, warts and all. If anything, he has succeeded in giving a human face to our nations' biggest problems, still relevant today in the approaching 2008 presidential elections; racism, sexual equality, moral hypocrisy. Malle is more interested in the complexities of these peoples' lives than exploiting those ignorant to the process of documentary filmmaking in order to produce a treatise on the bigotry of the American way of life. What becomes of this mentality is one of the most deeply personal and intimate indictments of our society.

As a Midwesterner I am grateful for Malle's genuine interest and affection for my neck of the woods. I grew up knowing all too well that people you love and admire harbor thoughts that embarrass and insult your own. But they are still human beings. Because he is an outsider, a Frenchman in America, his curiosity benefits the film well. He affords a detached observational approach to the Midwest, even when trying to immerse himself into his surroundings. The result is profoundly moving, both observational and sentimentally biased, as Malle constantly tells us of his affections for his subjects. And his subjects, never demonized or hero worshiped, are priceless in helping to understand the ongoing dialogue of what it means to be an American, for better or for worse. They may profess to lead simple lives, but they are not simple people.