Clyde’s Other Work
A handful of critics call Eastwood a squinty-eyed serape, a director who found “the middle ground between earnest and sincere”. They fail to spot his hidden signature, split-second cameos that trump Hitchcock, an arm stronger than machines.
His foil first appeared in Play Misty for Me, bringing release to tension for one frame as he sat in with Woody Herman’s Herd, stomping a hirsute foot for a sixteenth note before vanishing. Most effective was his one-take effort in Unforgiven as Eastwood’s lever-action rifle, cocked and ready to go, muzzle fixed to blow raspberries. The minds of filmgoers turned him into a weapon.
He last showed up in an X-ray of Hilary Swank’s neck, a smudge mistaken for C2 vertebra. When the shot was cut for time and taste, he fled on all fours, hopped in a mid-’60s Chevy Stepside, asked the guard in sign language for directions to Borneo.
Some still insist he had died in the 1980s, beaten by handlers. Yet the animal lover at the helm — a man who knew death only as a pointed finger accompanied by the word “bang” — ever strived to splice together sanctuary. Most likely he’s somewhere sipping martinis, living a life the keenest eye would mistake for CGI.
Daniel M. Shapiro has been called “gorgeous” by Burt Reynolds, asked Peter Criss about donating his blood to comics, and met Tom Savini in a bowling alley. His book of poems, How the Potato Chip Was Invented (sunnyoutside press, 2013), focuses on his obsession with celebrities. He is a special education teacher who lives in Pittsburgh, PA.
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(Picture of Manis and Clint Eastwood from unverified source)