The Last of the Mohicans (1936)

For those of us immune to the charms of James Fenimore Cooper's novels this movie is a godsend. I've never understood Cooper's plots, his characters, his appeal, his (apparent) greatness. He strikes me as nearly unreadable. The 1936 movie of Last Of the Mohicans, however, is quite good, though none of it makes much sense. It is set on the American frontier of the 18th century, which then meant upper New York state. Two sisters are involved; as are several British officers; a tribe or so of Indians, some virtuous, others not; and a chap named Hawkeye, who is exceedingly brave and an excellent shot with a long rifle. There are magnificently photographed scenes featuring forests, lakes, rivers and waterfalls. The birch-bark canoes, the costumes, the way the Indians look and act, the fort, the feeling of excitement, alternating with fear, and with it the sense that the Native Americans are quite as proficient at killing one another as the white man is of killing the whole lot of them, and maybe even better, are all conveyed with admirable realism. There is also an air of tragedy in the film, for white and red alike, though this is not dwelt on for long. The entire movie feels like a product of the period in which it is set, not the twentieth century. Many of the Indians are played by white actors, all of whom do an excellent job. Bruce Cabot's performance as Magua is the stuff of nightmares, and one's image of him lingers in the mind long after the film is over.