In "Powwow Highway"(1989) Native American Anger Gets the Care and Consideration It Deserves

Why is it so rare for American cinema to authentically explore the righteous anger of the oppressed and marginalized as well as this 1989 film?

Red Bow (A Martinez) on the left and Philbert (Gary Farmer) on the right.

The mountainous, dry-expanse of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Lame Deer, Montana is lit by sunlight the deep hue of honey. Kids play amongst rusting box springs. A gaggle of scruffy dogs run across dusty sloping streets. Homes have a desolate pall. Hollowed out cars dot the horizon. A hazy, dimly lit bar; the neon hiss of the red Budweiser logo cuts through the dark. It is in this bar that you learn this is a film constituted of real faces. Faces that wrinkle when they laugh. Faces that are freckled, pockmarked, aging, gorgeous in their prosaicness. Hollywood has trained viewers to heed youth. One composed of poreless, veneered smiling faces, and algorithmically defined beauty that lacks the charming imperfections of aliveness. But Powwow Highway is alive in ways that are electric and true. 

One of these real faces in Powwow Highway, the 1989 independent film marking its 35th anniversary this year, is that of Buddy Red Bow (A Martinez). He moves around the pool table, cue in hand and curses about the government that protects the “monstrosities” of pipelines tearing the environment asunder, whilst playing against Louie Short Hair (poet, musician, and activist John Trudell). When Red Bow leaves, in the narrow doorway he exchanges greetings with Philbert Bono (Gary Farmer) who walks in at the same time. The brevity of their exchange belies their importance to the narrative as its leads and the depth of the connection they will nurture for the rest of the film; which may be slim in runtime but glimmers with deep feeling. As the film continues it becomes quickly apparent how biting it is in its commentary and understanding of what it means to be Native American in modern times; an identity defined by complexity and the contradiction of being treated with indignity on land that is truly yours, to be marginalized in your own home. When Philbert saddles up to the bar, a commercial is playing on a small television. A white man decked in a Native American headdress sells cars on a used lot; there’s something both galling and bold in how white people sought to obliterate the existence of Native Americans only to use their sacred dress as a way to sell poor placeholders for the freedom they desire back to them. 

Red Bow and Philbert are a study in contrasts. Where Philbert is soft-natured, Red Bow is hard-edged. Philbert carries his large frame with a bubbling, jovial approachability; whilst Red Bow has a direct intensity that bends to no man. But where their differences truly lie is how each man reckons with their heritage in opposing ways even if they are both rooted in a deep love for their community. Philbert cares about charting the history of the Cheyenne people. He speaks about Cheyenne community icons and mythologies with aplomb, finding truths hidden within the fabulistic. He gorges on sweets and trash food as if to soften the harrowing nature of modern reservation life with the most fleeting of cheap pleasures. Red Bow is more concerned with the material dynamics of his people. He’s even considered a dangerous “radical” by the federal government. The past isn’t his focus for either lessons or truths. All that matters is the material reality of the people on the reservation and what to do about this barbed reality right now. 

Consider this. Red Bow in his second scene. He’s at a meeting about a strip-mining program on reservation land for which the company’s stooge (Geoffrey Rivas) is in attendance to make the pitch. While everyone sits — both council members and the people living on the reservation attending the meeting — Red Bow stands, leaning against the wall. A Martinez crafts a gaze that doubles as a glare and a dare. The lobbyist speaks about how “profitable” this decision would be for the reservation. It would create jobs. It would make their lives easier. Even as it degrades the land they so want to protect. Red Bow isn’t having it, “You get what you want and we get the shaft.” The lobbyist smoothly affirms that they’re in fact on the same side. Red Bow gets closer, his steps assured as he moves through the rows of people. “I know what side you’re on. Seventy five percent of our people living below the poverty line and you tell us stripping off what’s left of our natural resources will change that. This ain’t the American dream we’re living, it’s the third world.” Meanwhile, Philbert buys what he calls his “pony”. A beat-down, rusted to high heaven, true hoopdie of a car, which he procures with a jug of liquor, a baggie of weed, and a couple bucks. Director Jonathan Wacks and cinematographer Toyomichi Kurita use this moment to show a vision Philbert sees in his mind’s eye. When he looks out to the oasis of beat down cars he sees instead amber-lit galloping horses. This car may be in rough shape but it allows him a measure of freedom and autonomy. Qualities both Red Bow and Philbert are searching for from different angles.

 What brings these men together is an unexpected call Red Bow receives from his estranged sister, Bonnie (Joanelle Romero), who has been falsely imprisoned after a pound of weed was found in her trunk when cops pulled her over for no discernible reason. Red Bow enlists Philbert, with his new ride, to road trip down to Sante Fe, New Mexico to get his sister out of jail and back with her two young children that he didn’t even know she had. Powwow Highway isn’t a cudgel to force audiences to bear witness to the realities and histories of modern Native American life. It’s far more soulful than that. It carries the true spirit I would like to see in modern independent cinema. It’s lovingly down-to-earth, sharply crafted, and tenderly emotionally realized. It’s a film with a beating heart composed of such great, humane characterization I was in awe the first time I watched it thanks to my boyfriend stumbling across it one day last year on the Criterion Channel, where it is still streaming. It’s a film so damn good I have to wonder why I never heard of it before. 

Powwow Highway was filmed across Wyoming, Montana, South Dakota, and Santa Fe. As Red Bow and Philbert make their way across the expanse of the South West they come across other Native Americans, confront the interpersonal dynamics that reverberate with racism, and find joy in the process of community engagement. But the most important thing each man confronts is themselves and their relationship to each other as a proxy to their larger community. 

Coming across a Sioux couple on their journey, Philbert learns of a powwow happening in Pine Ridge he’s eager to attend. Red Bow isn’t interested, to put it mildly. They link up with Red Bow’s friend, Wolf Tooth (Wayne Waterman) and his wife. The first thing Wolf Tooth asks Philbert when they’re introduced is if he was involved in Wounded Knee or Ogala. Wolf Tooth and his family have decided to leave the poor conditions of the reservation after his shop was turned over by a group of straight up goons given a modicum of power and arms by the government, “We’re moving to Denver. It’s gotta be better than this.” The powwow is occurring in an auditorium. The sounds of chatter and laughter fill the air. The seating is packed with a variety of faces, young and old. Full dress. Chanting. Drumwork. Faces painted. Food served. Connections nurtured. Philbert makes a beeline to the food line, pilling up his plate to a hilarious almost troubling degree. What’s intriguing for me at the on-set is what Red Bow wears: his purple heart he gained in war and a shirt for AIM, the American Indian Movement, a powerfully radical and leftist group that was founded in 1968. As Philbert enjoys the festivities, Wolf Tooth gets into it with Miller (Adam Taylor) and his squad who turned over his shop. Red Bow cuts through the noise to defend Wolf Tooth, only to be forcibly pushed against the wall. “Let’s go have a talk, Red Bow,” Miller says with a voice laced with the possibility of violence. And just as Miller says “Red Bow” a thick blade is thrown and lands between them with a thump in the wall behind them. The knife between them is a warning shot protecting Red Bow. The camera cuts to the source of the knife: a Vietnam veteran named Jimmy played by Graham Greene. He was a prisoner of war for thirty-one months. He speaks in a dramatic, stumbling stutter. But nothing can mask his hurt. 

Before Red Bow goes to speak with him, Miller warns Red Bow, “Get out of town, Red Bow. All you AIM sons of bitches are gonna rot in prison like your pal, Peltier.” Off-hand comments like this demonstrate how Powwow Highway swims through the history of these people. This may be a fictional film but the history it evokes is very real. The film led me on a cinematic journey that has proven fruitful. Miller’s comment led me to watch the documentary Incident at Ogala (1992), which chronicles the death and fallout of two FBI agents getting killed on the Pine Ridge reservation for which Leonard Peltier, a Native American and AIM member would be the only person (wrongfully) convicted with a life sentence for this crime. I gobbled up the documentary Trudell (2005) which chronicles the life of poet, actor, musician and AIM member John Trudell who makes a brief appearance in Powwow Highway. The Grahame Greene thriller, Clearcut (1991), which shows the actor playing a man willing to bring great violence to the white people involved in pillaging his people’s lands was a standout in this cinematic journey. What Powwow Highway demonstrates to me is how differently authentic stories about the marginalized, with their cinematic involvement, treat history and the responsibility of artists. For the artisans behind Powwow Highway, I see the belief that snakes its way through the greatest works of the black, brown, and indigenous cinematic image-makers: that you’ve got to put everything on the line — your people’s history, interiority, and desires. That you must impart lessons to the public about your people’s history because film offers something vital — they are portals to greater understanding. Films such as this are rarities, so artists have to give it their all. Let’s be honest, films have never been just entertainment. Even the fluffiest, most inconsequential seeming films have contexts, histories, and politics they are informed by. Powwow Highway — like black radical films I love including The Spook Who Sat By the Door (1973) and Top of the Heap (1972)  — is entertaining and enlightening as it weaves historical dimensions into the emotional reality of the film. 

When Red Bow finally goes to Jimmy, their conversation is rich with history and complication. Jimmy speaks as if sentences are painful to finish. He shakes. His face drips with frustrated tears. Jimmy asks Red Bow if he’s going to dance in the powwow. “I don’t dance. I hate these goddamn things. You think a few lousy beads and feathers was a culture or something.” “No,” Jimmy says, “You got m-mean.” Red Bow’s face is hollowed out by realization from Jimmy’s words. That perceptive comment leads Red Bow to actually dance in the powwow. First, self-consciously. Then he and Philbert lock eyes. A demure smile spreads across his face and he moves with full bodied emotion. But Red Bow dancing in the powwow feels too abbreviated despite its impact. It deserves a beat or two more than perhaps its budget could allow. Nonetheless, it is an impactful scene bristling with the beauty and connection of this community. Red Bow and Philbert in this moment can’t conceive of the heart-fueling adventure that will follow as they make strides to get Bonnie out of jail. 

I won’t go deep into the ending of the film. I want those who are just discovering Powwow Highway to get the opportunity to be revved up and entranced by this beautiful road trip and spiritual journey. Its ending glints with such radical joy, unapologetic anger, and surprising fierceness. That it ends on such a righteously hopeful note is just one of its supreme pleasures. Watching Powwow Highway I couldn’t help but think afterwards about Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon from last year. (I wrote about Lily Gladstone’s performance and the nature of white empathy in the film for Vulture.) That film is pure prestige with the heft of runtime and reputation ensconcing it from more in-depth criticism about what it misses. White directors — especially the work of sacred cow white directors transfixed in the amber of a glorified past a la Licorice Pizza and Babylon — predominantly create work blasted from history and context. Even period pieces are disinterested in infusing the work with historical context that acknowledges and reflects upon the present moment. But for films that authentically display the worlds and lives of marginalized people, history is always at your doorstep. One of the most damning qualities about Killers of the Flower Moon is that it refuses to do what Powwow Highway excels at: hold the beauty and boldness of Native American anger to the light in order to chart the truth of America’s sins.

Powwow Highway is streaming on the Criterion Channel. I implore you to check out this amazing film on Criterion while you can.

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