thought I knew this story. I first heard it in one of the first Native American history classes offered on this continent, over thirty years ago. It has been part of my concept of reality ever since. But it was theoretical and political. This film is visceral: a little boy, having his hair (and all his memories)cut for the first time: both the character he portrays AND his own hair pounded a hole in my heart. I knew Sitting Bull traveled with Bill Cody, but I never grasped that he was a roadside attraction, a tourist trap, just like the people on the road to the south rim of the Grand Canyon who now sell Mexican blankets and Chinese beads to tourists. I felt so embarrassed, so sad and SO protective of Sitting Bull as that realization dawned on me. Charles, who chooses his so called Christian name just so he can speak in class to defend his chief, tricked by his teacher into a huge slip into assimilation. The recreation of the photos of the frozen bodies in the snow. The pot of dead mice, fading to the dead child and a tear on Sitting Bull's face. It was all a genius heartfelt production from all. I just wish they had used more contemporary: white, African American AND Native music for the score. The Hollywood Philharmonic orchestrations took me out of the movie; they were melodramatic. I had to go outside and watch the sun set after I saw this, let the wind wash my mind from the images. It took a long while before I could listen to the actors' commentaries. I got little from the director's, beyond a history lesson, and turned that off rather soon. This is work. Your heart must be open but protected. Do not try to see this movie in a hury. It is a memorial; treat it with honor.
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