I grew up in rural Oklahoma, and have lived in the state all my life. On things pertaining to our proud history I tend to be a bit of a stickler. I'm not a fan of Steinbeck for reasons of inaccuracy concerning my fair state in his writing, and it tends to set my hair on fire when people misrepresent parts of our history. And anyone with roots in Oklahoma will tell you one of our defining decades was the time between 1929, the crash of the stock market, and 1939, the outbreak of World War II.
It was a time of hardship and resilience, when the next generation of homesteaders, some of them my own ancestors, dealt with dry and overfarmed land that yielded little but dust storms. When the fledgeling government held the state together amidst economic depression, and where armed remnants of an age of outlaws crisscrossed their way through the state on their way to their own brand of fame and fortune.
Oklahoma had then a brand of lawman known for their toughness, Marshalls and Sheriffs unafraid to track down outlaws and bring them to justice, by court or bullet; the decision was often the fleeing suspects' themselves. They were men who got their rough hands dirty, who knew their guns like an extension of themselves. They were the men the FBI called on in its young years, when their polished agents had trouble tracking the country's most notorious lawbreakers; its designated Public Enemies.
Of course, it's doubtful J. Edgar Hoover would've called on these men to do what they did so well, had it not been for the advice of one man, a man who had worked with them before when he was head of the Investigation office in Oklahoma City.
A few weeks ago, my family and I went to see Public Enemies, the crime drama about the manhunt for John Dillinger. Johnny Depp of course plays the outlaw, and Christian Bale plays the man I've already mentioned, Mr. Melvin Purvis.
I couldn't quite get my finger on what bothered me about the movie as we watched it, so I pulled out my old Oklahoma History reader from high school when I got home. And there I found it.
To be fair, I think that the movie did a fine job of portraying him as an honorable, competant and human man. Evidence of his character is frequently shown, but too many facts are misrepresented.
First of all, Dillinger is portrayed as the films "antihero," and we're meant to grow attached to him, to root for him, etc. I'm pretty sure I was going against the grain to be pulling for Purvis the entire time, but I couldn't help myself. On the one hand, we had a man who broke the law, stole from banks across the country (thereby stealing from the bank's customers whether they realized it or not), and killed unsuspecting prison guards, not to mention, in spite of how plot-centric the romance was, was unfaithful to his girlfriend after she went to prison for his sake.
On the other, a farmer's son from South Carolina, a man devoted to true justice, who treated his men well and women, even suspects, with respect and kindness and chivalry.
*Shrug* Call me old fashioned.
In the film, as in American lore, Dillnger is often called a "Robin Hood" figure. Personally I find this very inaccurate. Robin Hood, in his best portrayals was a man looking out for an oppressed poor in a flawed monarchy, a just man in an unjust society. Not to mention his romances were virtuous. John Dillinger, on the other hand, robbed from the rich and gave to whom? Gun suppliers, speakeasies, and of course his own closet.
I read a fine article in a magazine of Jay's about the movie. It mostly focused on the highly accurate guns used, (including the GORGEOUS Mauser that Purvis carried in the Pretty Boy Floyd scene, but I digress...) but it did make some interesting points, being a conservative publication, about the morality of the film.
Christians have a comforting fact we can believe in, something that often perplexes those who don't believe in God's word and law as strongly. And that is that some things truly are black and white;
There is just killing, there is unjust killing.
John Dillinger was a criminal, and a murderer.
Melvin Purvis was an officer of the law.
Perhaps that was why, come the end of the movie, I wasn't sad for Dillinger's fate. I was sad for his "love interest," who spent years in prison for his sake. I was sad for the lives left shattered in the wake of his own. But I wasn't sad that a a man who dealt in death had met his inevitable fate.
One thing that did make me sad? In order to fit their version of the story, the filmmakers carefully worded the end notes to the detriment of dear Mr. Purvis.
Yes, shortly after the death of Mr. Dillinger he resigned from the FBI. However, most FBI historians assert it had more to do with Hoover than guilt over Dillinger. Hoover was all pomp and circumstance, the product of a wily publicist; the film did show this quite well. After several flashy arrests, on the virtue of his excellent record and personal style Mr. Purvis eclipsed his supervisor in the eyes of the press to become an absolute icon for several years. Jealous, Hoover privately pressured the better man to resign. Purvis was never after, nor entirely comfortable with the spotlight; he lived out the rest of his life back in South Carolina, where he practiced law. (And, interestingly enough, became partial inspiration for the timeless character of Atticus Finch.)
Finally, the filmmakers would have you believe, when they say "died by his own hand," that Purvis committed suicide over guilt and inability to live with himself owing to personal compromises he made during the manhunt for Dillinger. Melvin Purvis did die in his home, from a bullet fired from the gun presented to him upon his resignation from the FBI. All evidence suggests that it was a gun cleaning accident. It happens to even the best among firearms handling.
And thus ends my tangent on the late Mr. P, who, having lived in and been a part of Oklahoma and her history, even for a short time, is subject to the
LYDIA SLATTON SEAL OF REPUTATION AND FACT PROTECTION.
That's right. Bring it on, Hollywood. ;)
