Category: The Quiet Man

SEAN THORNTON, NINE

A professional boxer retired due to tragedy, Sean seeks retreat and peace. He’s an easy Nine.

The Quiet Man’s story is simple: Irish-American comes to the Old Country to settle and make a new life in his ancestral home. When he sees a lass tending sheep, he falls for her, makes “pattyfingers in the holy water” with her, and arranges to court her. Her belligerent brother keeps them apart over spite about the property, until he consents and later regrets it, holding his sister’s dowry after the marriage. Sean must eventually demand the money and make peace with his brother-in-law, which leads to a town-consuming brawl between the two of them. In the end they live happily ever after.

We hit a wall, though, when we get to the scene of him dragging his wife by the nape of her neck. Is something about this moment particularly Nine-ish? His avoidance of conflict — taking the brother’s verbal ridicule, watching his volatile wife demand her things about her — might lead to a man who’s had enough and overreacts as a result. If he’s driven to take action, though, just give him a different action to take. The key to this whole movie is the moment when Sean pursues his wife to the train station and returns with her to town.

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MARY KATE DANAHER, FOUR

The Quiet Man still has a lot to love. The couple riding in the matchmaker’s cart and escaping into the Irish countryside is charming. When she shelters against his wet, white shirt, it’s one of the more romantic moments ever put on film. The beautiful horse race on the beach, the Playfairs jovially riding their two-person bicycle through town, Father Lonergan battling with his fishing — all wonderful to watch. I can (and do) quote Michaleen Flynn all day.

However, Mary Kate dragged by her husband through the fields nullifies everything else. I can’t say how that scene played in 1952, but today it’s offensive. 

When we strip away the baggage, this love story is simple. She’s a Four and he’s a Nine, a classic combination. She’s passionate and quick-tempered, having all the feelings for the both of them. He’s laid back, able to disengage from much that riles her. Perhaps as a Four, an open book to all of the village, one more degrading moment doesn’t shame her? Perhaps his display of feelings, no matter how ugly, reassures her of his love?

Nope, it’s all the language of abuse. It’s an unnecessary scene — the intent is quite clear without pulling a woman through sheep dung — that could be reworked, making a movie that is watchable today. I hate to see classic filmmaking consigned to the dustbin. John Ford made his choices, though, and today’s audience will judge accordingly.