A lot of discussions about old-time movie monsters include talk of sympathy for the creature, whether that’s sympathy for Frankenstein’s Monster (he didn’t ask to be made, much less as a monstrosity), the Gill-man (he didn’t invite those littering invaders into his lagoon), the Wolf Man (he’s been bitten (since when did someone want that?) and also, he can’t control that damned moon or, as a result, himself). They are seen as monster, as victim, as outsider.

 

While there is no movie that shows a scarecrow man in such a way it seems as though he could fit into that discussion quite easily. He’s been made and forced into servitude, a cobbled together mess of burlap rags and cast-off clothes. He faces the full brunt of the elements, day in and out, as he plays the thankless role of rent-a-cop to a farmer’s fields. The wind and sun work his clothes into a greater state of decay. I mean, he started off as a rag man, only to grow shabbier. Furthermore, some people are cruel enough to dress him up as some sad-sack, Emmett Kelly-kinda clown. And, God, there’s nothing scarier than a clown.

 

So, let’s say some autumn-time magic pulls him off his post. The jerk and shift of a walking straw man entering town, his burlap face twisted into a silent groan... Well, geez, he’d have people firing up their torches and grabbing their pitchforks in no time. They’d think the devil was on the loose.

 

And the thing is: He didn’t ask for this. He can’t help that he’s made of straw and has a significant hitch in his step. Sure, it’s disconcerting to see his shake and shamble. I’m sure the collective intelligence contained in the leaves and straw that serve as his brain can understand all this, if just barely. And, man, but wouldn’t that make it worse. To know just enough to understand, if not appreciate, why you’re getting a face full torch. His loyalty to the farmer repaid with fire when he walks from his job.

 

And then we’ve got the whole Jesus Christ-pose thing going on...

 

Good grief.