I have never been a big fan of horses. This feeling may stem from a trip I once took to Mackinac Island as a kid. My family rented a horse and carriage, and the horse was old and stubborn. Instead of taking a half hour tour of the sights, we ended up on a two-hour excursion. The damn horse simply wouldn't follow commands. We ended up at the top of a very steep hill where a sign was posted: "Only experienced coach drivers."
I have never been horseback riding. Never wanted to. Horses are big, tall, and, in my experience, not very cooperative. The one time I fed a horse a carrot, I thought I was going to lose a finger. I have seen the Lipizzaner stallions perform. Beautiful. Saw the Budweiser Clydesdales march in a parade. Pretty cool. However, the idea of sitting on the back of any kid of equine . . . Let's just say that it won't be happening, unless I am drugged and tied in the saddle.
Saint Marty will stick to watching horse movies.
Movies About Horses
by: Justin Runge
On every comprehensive list of the greatest movies of all time, The Wizard of Oz (1939)
stands out as a watershed moment in horse cinema. Inside the blue horse
there is a pain foraged from the gut of gorges. Suddenly, the horse has
gone magenta. She spills the beans. Swelling in every tear duct. Full
gullets: their contents, rotten forest fruit. She is green now.
Seabiscuit (2003) wins your heart in a poker game marked by gunfire.
Can you deny Black Beauty (1921) when it is harassing your
women? Do your muscles bulge like muslin sacks of corn when it shatters
your bay windows in an act of attrition? You know, faltering is an
option in this orange light.
I’ve felt it, the calm dentistry. It was National Velvet (1944) which asked of me difficult, strenuous rescues, pushed down the bullies when they spat sleet, calloused my knuckles.
Modern masterpiece, The Godfather (1972), bloodies your
sheets in accidental birth. Here is a thunder that is relentless. Even
the crude palate can taste a wince, a wetness, a scream the viscosity of
oil. Also, what a pleasure to watch a head like an owl’s turn, and
turn, and turn.
Wildfire (1945) will burn down your apartment complex and
tell your parents you were notorious for falling asleep with lit
cigarettes in your foolish, foolish mouth!
We’ve Die Unendliche Geschichte (1984) to do. We’ve earth to sink into, soil to swallow. Again, the bullies pursue, but we sink. They walk over us, oblivious.
The one truth revealed in My Friend Flicka (1943) is that,
when properly maintained and greased, shotguns pose no imminent threat
to your children. Still, when confronted by any number of masked
vigilantes, fight through your tears.
The Red Pony (1949) is willing to die for petty victories. For horse movies. For the Boy Scouts of America. For jubilation.
Let’s not get into Giant (1956). Not right now, not at the autopsy. Not at the spelling bee.
I was all sagging sorrow at the premier of The Painted Stallion (1937).
No one knew my name there — I crammed into a seat in the midst of
shotgun children, the sleetspit bullies, the skin graft families. Raw
eyelid curtains slid over the cataract screen and I slunk like a nickel
into the seat fold. Sound of the reel roll. I felt responsible for the
victims of the Texas Hold ‘Em debacle, the spirited side-saddle murder
ride, all those Conestoga collisions, arrows jamming the wheel wells. In
my chest rattled the death knells. When the lights in the auditorium
rose, I was a conflagration. I brayed. I lost my head.
Oh, Equus (1977), you’ve become my reality. Investigate the absence of my eyes.