The Celluloid Coffin

Fell across an interesting article from Obit Magazine written by Kevin Nance

Dying in the movies isn’t what it used to be. Oh, the body count is higher than ever on the big screen — the hegemony of the action picture has seen to that, as this summer’s blockbusters will demonstrate — but the classic Hollywood death scene has never been much associated with extreme violence because of its speed. To die of a gunshot to the head, or a knife to the chest, is dramatically inert unless the victim has had sufficient time to register the full implications of the mortal mess he’s in. One millisecond clueless, the next one a corpse: that’s not a death scene. That’s instant oblivion, not to mention a bore.

Which is to say that a movie death scene that aspires to greatness requires foreknowledge, and the more of it the better. When a character knows she’s done for — knows it for sure, no hope for reprieve — she becomes an active participant in the drama of her own extinction. Horror, rage, fear, sadness, pity, acceptance, compassion for loved ones left behind, accusation or forgiveness for the one who failed or even killed her: All these and more can transform, darken or illuminate the victim’s face in the moments before the light goes out. There’s no richer opportunity for an actor, and no greater trap.

What else makes a good death scene? Good dialogue, obviously — which doesn’t rule out concessions to stylized genre conventions and perhaps a larger than usually acceptable dose of sentimentality. Dignity is often helpful but not make-or-break, and sometimes it’s actually a stumbling block. Heavy symbolism is even worse, as in Willem Dafoe’s Christlike pose at the end of Platoon (1986). Get off the cross, Willem, we need the wood.

Here, then, are Obit Magazine’s Ten Greatest Movie Death Scenes, in chronological order:

The death of Catherine in A Farewell to Arms (1932).

The foundation of the American death scene is Helen Hayes’ tear-jerking turn as a nurse who dies with the anguished man she loves (Gary Cooper) at her side. Acceptance and fear battle it out on her face, and the effect is crushing. “Oh darling, I’m going to die. Don’t let me die!”

The death of Beth in Little Women (1933).

It works for three reasons: (1) the fact that the filmmakers, following Louisa May Alcott’s beloved novel, have established that Beth (Jean Parker) is dear to her sister Jo; that Jo is played to perfection by the young Katharine Hepburn; and (3) that the dialogue, perhaps treacly for some, strikes me as ideal for the situation and the characters.  “I’m not afraid anymore!” Beth tells Jo. “I'm learning that I don't lose you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and nothing can part us, though it seems to. Oh, Jo! I think I'll be homesick for you — even in heaven.” If the scene doesn’t move you, you are ineligible for consideration by President Obama for the Supreme Court.

The death of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz (1939).

For a children’s classic, Oz has a surprising attitude toward killing. When the Munchkins hail Dorothy’s squashing of the Wicked Witch of the East — which they believe was intentional — they burst into one of the most baroque celebrations of murder (“Ding dong the witch is dead!”) ever filmed. Later, the Wizard effectively puts out a contract on his rival, the Wicked Witch of the West — an assignment Dorothy and her pals accept, not because their lives are threatened in that moment but because they are willing to kill to get what they want. When the deed is done, it remains, though provoked, an assassination. All of which is a fitting prelude to one of the most spectacular death scenes, with the Witch (the magnificent Margaret Hamilton) letting loose with a primal screech. “I’m melting! I’m melting! Who would have thought that some little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?” Beautiful? Why not? After all, the Witch’s motive throughout has been to avenge her sister and recover her legacy — a morality at least as defensible as Dorothy’s.

The death of Arthur and Elsa Bannister in The Lady from Shanghai (1948). 

There’s an over-the-top quality to the finale of this otherwise routine noir thriller by Orson Welles, in which he appears with his then-wife, Rita Hayworth. The German Expressionist funhouse scene culminates in the Arthur’s cracked, finally soul-weary speech in the hall of mirrors, brandishing his gun at the scheming Elsa: “Killing you is killing myself. But you know, I’m pretty tired of both of us.” Bang!

The death of Fredo in The Godfather, Part II (1974).

Does Fredo know what’s coming? In some ways he seems not to — he’s about to go fishing with his nephew, remember, when the boy is called away at the last minute and Fredo goes out on the lake with his brother Michael’s henchman piloting the boat. Why doesn’t Fredo call off the trip? Because he’s a dim bulb? Dim or not, he’s a Corleone, and he knows he’s mortally offended the Don. He knows as well as anyone what Michael is capable of, and he knows, I think, what the boy’s removal must mean. But Fredo sets off anyway, his back to the henchman, praying his Hail Marys. Fredo’s is a conscious act of acceptance and contrition, I think, and a peace offering of sorts to Michael, who’s waiting back in the boathouse for the sound of the gunshot.

The death of Roy in Blade Runner (1982). 

If you accept that the androids in Ridley Scott’s great sci-noir are, morally speaking, human beings, then you must agree that this is perhaps the most profoundly death-haunted film ever made. The androids, played so memorably by Rutger Hauer and Sean Young, among others, initially are interested in the question of whether their memories are real or implanted, but this comes to seem beside the point. Consciousness, “authentic” or not, is humanity. In the end, the only questions that matter are: How much time do we have left? How will we use it?  There’s some profundity for you.

The death of Emma in Terms of Endearment (1983).

If you have any guts, this film will rip them out, not once but twice. First comes the dying Emma’s brutally poignant farewell scene with her children from her bed in a hospital cancer ward, Larry McMurtry’s dialogue delivered to devastating effect by Debra Winger: “You're gonna realize that you love me,” she tells her stoic son. “And maybe you're gonna feel badly, because you never told me. But don't — I know that you love me. So don't ever do that to yourself, all right?” Then comes the actual death. “I'm so stupid, so stupid,” sobs her mother, Aurora (Shirley MacLaine). “Somehow, I thought, somehow I thought when she finally went that — that it would be a relief. Oh, my sweet little darling. Oh dear, there's nothing harder!"

The death of Matthew in Dead Man Walking (1995). 

This film has foreknowledge to spare. Assisted by Sister Helen Prejean (Susan Sarandon), Death Row inmate Matthew (Sean Penn) spends the movie preparing to be executed. What’s coming in this world is never really in doubt; the question in this deeply Catholic film has to do with the fitness of Matthew soul for passage into the next world. His final confession of guilt is shattering, and prepares the way for the even more moving scene just before his lethal injection. "I want the last face you see in this world to be the face of love, so you look at me when they do this thing,” Sister Helen tells him. “I'll be the face of love for you.” He does, and she is.

The death of Bill in Kill Bill, Vol. 2 (2004). 

The conundrum of director-writer Quentin Tarantino’s hyper-stylized films is that he’s constantly sending us signals that we’re not supposed to take anything seriously — except when we are. Sort of. One such occasion is the climactic battle between Beatrix Kiddo (Uma Thurman) and the serenely menacing monster (David Carradine), who clearly still loves her. The means of Bill’s demise, the “five-point palm-exploding heart technique” (which means Bill will die as soon as he stands up and takes five steps away), is both ludicrous and yet strangely effective in setting up one of the cinema’s quirkiest, funniest, most weirdly moving death orations:  "You're not a bad person,” he tells her in teasing, forgiving tones just before his mortal perp walk. “You're a terrific person. You're my favorite person, but every once in a while, you can be a real cunt.”

The death of Maggie in Million Dollar Baby (2005).

Controversial because of the ongoing debate over assisted suicide, this film transcends its political dimensions through the profound emotional connection between the characters. When boxing manager Frankie (Clint Eastwood) fulfills the request of his paralyzed pupil (Hilary Swank) for relief from life as a vegetable, it’s the ultimate act of kindness made exponentially more powerful by his palpable reluctance. It leaves you speechless.


Kevin Nance is a Chicago-based reporter, editor and critic.