525 - Vernon, Florida, United States, 1981. Dir. Errol Morris.
Henry Shipes could be a prototype for a Hemingway protagonist.
Imagine an ambulance driver in Italy. A bullfighter in Spain. A big-game hunter in Africa. A deep-sea fisherman in Cuba.
Now imagine a turkey hunter in Vernon.
What do they have in common?0
As with the Hemingway heroes, Henry (Henry, as in Lt. Frederic Henry (A Farewell to Arms) and Harry Morgan (To Have and Have Not)), the turkey hunter in Vernon, possesses a dedication to his work, knowledge of his game, attention to detail, unrelenting focus, reliance on his code, and grace under pressure.
He thinks like a scientist. He can look at a turkey track and tell you the weight of the animal, the composition of the dirt, its moisture level, and the amount of time that has passed since the turkey stepped on it. He can hear nuances in nature, and distinguish among the sounds of turkeys, woodpeckers, and buzzards.
He has respect for his prey. He knows their strengths as well as his own limitations. And he works within those limitations.
He has infinite patience. He knows when to arrive, how to approach, what to listen for, when to wait, when to give chase, when to shoot, and when to miss.
And he tells his stories with matter-of-fact conviction.
The only thing he is lacking is an author like Hemingway to put him in perspective for the rest of us. Or to do as Steinbeck did for the Okies travelling to California.
Errol Morris simply aimed his camera on Shipes and allowed him to talk for himself. And for the next forty years viewers have missed what was right in front of their eyes and ears. Because he is different from them. And they do not understand him.
Not all the characters in Vernon, Florida, share Henry Shipes' code-heroic qualities. But most of them express to a strong degree the expression of straightforward human dignity. And several of them are great storytellers.
It is hard to find a good review of this film.
Because the good ones have not yet been written.
Harmonica.
Humming.
There's No Place Like Home.
The camera sits medium-low in the middle of the road. Houses line each side. Tin roofs. Partially rusted. A chimney. A white coupe. No curbs. Sandy mud slides out from the yards over the asphalt.
The mustard-orange Ford pickup--about a 1969 F-100 Flareside (Ford's name for Stepside, where the wheel wells arch outside the truck bed)--moves forward from a distance, as if to drive at us, emitting insecticide from its tail like a hazer. The Ford has been configured for mosquito spraying.
It has a bright orange light on top, flashing like a rotating beacon, like a little lighthouse moving down the road, as if a warning for sea vessels and aircraft. Another flashing orange light moves to a different rhythm on the front driver's-side bumper. Not a turn single. But an installed warning light.
The truck turns. We cut.
It drives up another neighborhood road. This time closer to us. This time coming at us.
The harmonica plays. The man hums.
The truck turns. The fog rolls up over us. I start looking for it to rub its back upon the window-panes. And to linger upon the pools that stand in drains. But this fog, this insecticide, is not yellow. It is white. And we are not in a soft October night. We are in late afternoon of what looks like a Summer day. Under a dull overcast sky.
We cut.
We are in town. A service station. The Chevron logo with the Standard name. It is 1981. Standard Oil is still a thing. Round Coca-Cola signs near the Standard sign, facing in each direction on the pump roof. A green-roofed store. A post office. City Hall.
The mud crawls out halfway into the street. Not red clay. Light-colored. Like sand. Tire tracks reveal the direction of previously exiting traffic.
Three flashing lights stretch across the street on a wire above, like rope walkers. Two facing us, one facing the side street of the intersection beneath them. The left utility pole leans in, as if pulled by the lights' weight over time. The right pole hides camouflaged by two tall trees. Another traffic light flashes across another intersection in the distance.
Three cars sit parked before the post office. A brown-wood-paneled station wagon. A red van. A light-cobalt blue sedan with a dent in the right rear fender.
A woman in a white blouse with billowing sleeves runs out from behind the red van, as if to go to the blue sedan. She sees our camera and turns and ducks behind the front of the blue sedan. Then she adjusts and ducks behind the front of the red van. One could watch this film several times and not see her.
As the mosquito truck turns from the right side street onto our street, an orange light flashes in midair, making its way vertically down the screen, a flare from the cab light onto the camera lens.
The truck leans to its right, pressing down upon the shocks, tilting at an angle. As it comes out of its turn it gradually, almost imperceptibly rebalances itself, only to tilt again at the next turn.
The cab light flashes its orange flash. The bumper light flashes its orange flash. The paired street lights flash their synchronized orange flash. The camera flare flashes its orange flash. All flashing at different rates, never at the same time. And yet, as the truck passes beneath the streetlights, there is a single frame where all five orange lights flash at the same time--the two streetlights, the cab light, the bumper light, the flare--not visible in real time but only on the freezed frame.
He throws up fog against the camera again. And exits for good.
An overhead shot of the town.
Are we in Bodega Bay? In Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds? Yet here the sky is clean. Not a fowl in sight.
A car drives out.
A man walks.
We see about seven businesses. The Standard station. Locally named "Brock's Ser. Sta." A brown pickup sits parked at the pump with a green fishing boat coupled behind it. A sign to the side points down the side street. "Henry's Oyster Bar." The store two doors down has a rusted tin roof and a rectangular Coca-Cola sign above it. Across the street and down sits the Exxon station. Then the Market, the name too difficult to read. A yellow facade with a green awning. An Ice machine against the front wall. A Sunbeam Bread delivery van parked out front. The store next to it is named for its proprietor, also too difficult to read. A sign to the side on the ground reads Meadow Gold Ice Cream. A splash of what could be bougainvillea grows against the wall. The green-roofed store from earlier is Parish Hardware. Three lawnmowers sit out front. A sign reads DeVoe Paint.
We hear the voice of our first guide. Albert Bitterling.
"Reality. You mean this is the real world? I never thought of that." He laughs. He is from Chicago. He moved down here with his mother. Decided to "get out of there . . . while the gettin's good."
He tells us his story as we go to--
City Hall.
A baby blue Ford sits parked in front. On the pavement. This time a Styleside (Ford's name for Fleetside, the current standard, where the wheel well arches hide inside the truck bed). Various debris sit in the bed. Including a steel Johnson Wax bucket. On the driver door reads in red stencil "CITY of VERNON."
A man in a navy ballcap, a dark brown shirt, white undershirt, blue denim jacket, and dark pants, rakes the leaves from the dirt with a green-trimmed rake.
Two benches face one another. The empty one reads "Florida First. Vernon Office. Member F.D.I.C." The other one, partially blocked by a seated Albert Bitterling, reads "D- and Lorraine Gilmore / D--wood Lodge / Panama City Beach / [phone number]."
A two-toned, rust-and-brown Chevy pickup is parked behind him with side-railings and after-market rear tires. A brown Ford pickup pulls in behind him with side cleats and a white camper shell with two side slatted glass windows.
Bitterling wears a gray thermal shirt, a darker gray vest with red trim, a heavy brown flannel coat, a ribbed chook cap, tan slacks with a slight flare, dark socks, and light brown shoes. He sports black glasses and a gray beard. He grasps a walking cane in one hand and a rock in the other, which he later describes as a purchased jewel. A folded, faded newspaper sticks out of his right breast pocket.
We cut to a wide angle. Now looking back at Albert on the bench and the truck beside it.
You would not know that time has passed except that the baby blue Ford pickup has been moved forward and reparked, now in the dirt. The man who had been raking emerges from the building and approaches the driver door. He beats the door handle twice with his gloves and opens the door, starts the truck, and drive off.
Albert sits silently on the bench as a tanker truck drives past from the other direction.
Here are a few of the characters.
Albert Bitterling - Man who moved down from Chicago, tells story at City Hall; later shares his thoughts on life while standing by the river; shows a poorly developed photograph.
Henry Shipes - Turkey Hunter.
Snake Reynolds - Shipes' hunting partner.
George Harris - Man who expounds on the four bowls of your brain, later tells the story, along with Claude Register, of the man who accidentally shot himself.
Roscoe Collins - Police officer, handle Vernon 30, who sits in his car. He speaks to Quincy on his radio.
Joe Payne - The man with the Gopher Tortoise and the Possum, tells the story of catching a mule skeleton, pulling him out, and finding 144 warmouth perch inside; sits between George Harris and Claude Register and listens to them tell their story. He was given the possum for free and plans to sell it at Fun Day in Wassau for a $1,200-1,500 return.
Ray Cotton - The preacher. Works carpentry. Has prayed and believed God for his needs, including his van. Leads worship and preaches, featuring an exegesis of the word therefore.
Coy Brock - The man in the boat who talks about God.
Mr. and Mrs. Martin - The couple who went to White Sands.
The people in this film sit and watch and patiently waiting.
Henry Shipes and his hunting partner Snake stand quietly in the woods listening for gobblers, for turkey, so that they can hunt and kill them.
Roscoe Collins sits in his patrol car watching for speeders, allowing them to see him and to slow down, planning to stop only the most egregious offenders so that it is clearly their responsibility if they get caught.
George Harris watches the mechanic put a new tire on a truck wheel.
The people also engage in show and tell.
Albert shares his jewel with us. Later he shares his photograph.
Henry shares his turkey prizes--the feet and beards. He points out tracks. And buzzards.
Joe shares his animals.
All of them tell stories.
* * * * *
But you know they're here.
You have to do this in a hurry, cause you're going to cover several places at one time. Not at one time, but as quick as you can, cause they gobble better earlier part of the morning. The later in the morning it get, the less they gobble. So you usually, usually kill by, oh, six or seven o'clock at the latest. There's been a lot killed after that, but that's the cream of the huntin', from daylight to 6 or 7 o'clock.
He's looking for a fresh track now. And if he finds a fresh track, he'll stop, listen, and go in on it. That's what he's doing, walking and listening right now. Looking for a fresh sign that's crossed the graded road. Where there's smoke, there's fire, you know. You find a fresh track, you know there's a gobbler there. Cause this is a prime area for turkey.
Look how that one's bogged down there. Bogged an inch deep there in that dirt. He weigh 18, 20 pounds. Look at the size of the track. Look how he's bogging up that hard dirt. He probably crossed there late yesterday afternoon and roosted right back down here in these woods.
And if he's got a hen with him, it's very hard to call him away from that hen. You can believe that. Anybody that'll tell you they can call a gobbler away from a pack of hens just any time . . . Did you hear that? Sounded almost like a turkey gobbling, but it's not. It's one of them big woodpeckers pecking. It'll fool you a lot of times. . . . Occasionally you'll call a big gobbler away from some hen, but very seldom. I'd rather not even try to call one away. Well, you always try, but you can't do it. I never have. Very, very, very seldom.
Joe Payne
They said he was 65 years old. I don't know about that now. That's a long time for a mule.
That's a great price for a possum, don't you know.
Worm Farmer
I've never studied no book on these wigglers. What I know about 'em is just self-experience. They got books on 'em, but them books is wrong.
Ray Cotton (leading singing)
Sing the wondrous love of Jesus
Sing his mercy and his grace
In the mansions bright and blessed
He'll prepare for us a place
When we all get to heaven
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus
We'll sing and shout the victory
Coy Brock
I've never seen anything more perfect in my life than to see the perfection of God himself.
* * * * *
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