It’s tempting—for a movie as good, as funny, as singular as Raising Arizona—to write a review that consists of little more than a greatest hits summary of moments from the film. I could, for example, express admiration for the many delightfully off-kilter line readings (my personal MVP: Holly Hunter’s sobbing outburst, “I LOVE HIM SO-O MU-U-UCH…!”). I could also rehash the jewel of condensed exposition that is the movie’s opening sequence. I could note how sharply and succinctly the movie uses dialogue to sketch out characters like Hi’s odious foreman Glen, who damns himself with lines like, “Me and Dot went in to adopt on account a’ somethin’ went wrong with my semen.”
Raising Arizona’s premise suggests a movie that will be weird and frantic—funny, yes, but little more than that. How else to describe it but as a star-crossed love story/crime caper/comedy of errors, in which a Hawaiian shirt-wearing serial stick-up artist called Hi McDunnough (Nicolas Cage) falls in love with a stern-but-vulnerable cop named Ed (Holly Hunter) and tries to start a family. Complications arise in the various forms of: infertility, a mismanaged baby heist, a pair of fugitive jailbirds, and a sinister biker/bounty hunter. It’s a grab bag of plot elements, and in the hands of pretty much anyone other than the Coens, a formula for unfocused chaos.
The Coens themselves, notoriously coy about interpreting their own work, have resisted talking about Raising Arizona as much more than an exercise in comedic storytelling. But these are filmmakers who have proven themselves time and again to be exceptionally wise about genre—about its expectations and possibilities. It’s pretty much guaranteed that there will be more going on.
Tucked away amid Raising Arizona’s manic set pieces and baroque dialogue is a sweet, melancholy little parable about inequality—about why, in Hi’s words, “some should have so many while others should have so few.” It’s a weighty topic for any film, especially (one might assume) a broad comedy in which somebody gets blown up by a hand grenade. But it’s a unique privilege of comedy to be able to observe the absurdity at the root of tragic situations without having the responsibility to locate a solution—knowing, even, that there may be no solutions.
Indeed, some of the funniest moments in the movie double as pointed social critique. For example, there is Hi’s justification for his recidivist tendencies: “I tried to stand up and fly straight, but it wasn’t easy with that sumbitch Reagan in the White House. I dunno, they say he’s a decent man. So maybe his advisers are confused.” There is a simultaneous naiveté and wisdom in that statement which carries throughout the film. I also love Hi’s stilted explanation of adoption agency politics: “Well, this whole thing is just who knows who—then over here, you have favoritism.” As circular as that sounds, it really is a pretty accurate summary of how society works. How it is, though, that some people can work the system to their advantage will always remain a mystery to those people who cannot.
Given this context, even the speech (whimsical and highly stylized as it may be) conveys something purposeful about the characters. The mannered language characters like Hi, Gale, and Evelle use isn’t just aesthetic; it’s aspirational, as if these characters had tried to lift some of the fancier-sounding phrases straight out of the Bible or evening news. It’s a kind of linguistic analog to the lovingly tended decorations the McDunnoughs use to beautify their modest trailer home. Or to the pomade Gale and Evelle studiously comb into their hair after breaking out of prison, their state-issued overalls still caked with mud and sewage.
Nathan Arizona—already established in his spacious house with his $500 camel coats and amusingly prim-looking hausfrau of a wife—is not so concerned with appearing grander than he is and so cultivates a folksier image. His signature phrase: “Watch yer butt (or my name ain’t Nathan Arizona)!” The twist, we discover, is that his name is not Nathan Arizona after all, but Nathan Huffhines. His reason for the name change: “Would you buy furniture at a store called Unpainted Huffhines?” The implication being that somewhere in his past, he too was just another schmo trying to make reality fit his created image.
Two contrasting visions of domesticity:
above, the McDunnough home; below, the Arizonas'.
The Coens understand the dual nature of inequality: that it is, on the one hand, an inescapable facet of life perpetrated through the randomness of luck, and on the other hand, a social problem that can be ameliorated or exacerbated by human actions. On the one hand, one of the terrible things about inequality is that those who enjoy success don’t deserve it less than other people. If Nathan Arizona were a thoroughly loathsome individual it would be easier to begrudge him his good fortune. And though he may be a blowhard, he also turns out to be an essentially decent and forgiving man, full of genuine affection for his family. When you take “deserves” out of the equation, it’s basically inexplicable why some people ascend to wealth, power, and personal happiness while others can never seem to catch a break.
On the other hand, the movie points out, social institutions do a lot to restrict opportunity. One man, born Nathan Huffhines, successfully recreates himself as Nathan Arizona, founds a furniture empire, and spawns a dynasty of darling, blond little überkinder. Another man is turned away by an adoption agency due to his criminal past, in spite of his sincere desire to turn over a new leaf. Reinvention, supposed to be the bedrock of American life, becomes just another unevenly distributed privilege.
But as devoted as the movie is to critiquing American society, it does so not without compassion. Unlike so many other more patronizing takedowns of the American dream, Raising Arizona doesn’t make the mistake of condemning the dream as shallow or materialistic. Rather, the movie acknowledges the simple dignity and profound satisfaction of settling down with the one you love and raising a family in comfort and stability. Hi’s closing speech, a lovely and achingly hopeful recounting of a literal dream, points to the sad truth that, while all people may yearn for love and acceptance, not all people can or ever will find it.
As Hi muses: "This whole dream, was it wishful thinking? Was I just fleeing reality like I know I'm liable to do? But me and Ed, we can be good too. And it seemed real. It seemed like us and it seemed like, well, our home. If not Arizona, then a land not too far away. Where all parents are strong and wise and capable, and all children are happy and beloved. I don't know. Maybe it was Utah."
Of course, after all that, count on the Coens to end on a punchline. “Maybe it was Utah” indeed. Awaiting your response (or my name ain’t…),
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