Western – The Magnificent 60s

Shoot Out (1971) ***

The team behind True Grit – producer Hal Wallis, director Henry Hathaway and screenwriter Marguerite Roberts – make the mistake of thinking that lightning will strike twice in a tale of an older fella, in this case a bank robber rather than a lawman, saddled with a younger woman, in this case a child rather than a sassy teenager. It’s not the only mistake. The title is a misnomer, for a start, and there’s a rather dumb use of shooting the apple off a child’s head a la the “Swizzer” William Tell. In reality, it’s a revenge tale, and a violent one at that, mixed in with a sentimentality that’s at odds with the story.

Like James Stewart and John Wayne, Gregory Peck was in something of a default position in terms of the movies he was now making. This trio, in particular, now specialized almost exclusively in the western. From 1966 of the nine movies made by Wayne seven had been westerns. For Stewart, over the same period, it had been exclusively westerns – five of them. Now Peck was beginning to go down the same route – this would be his third western in three years.

The reason wasn’t hard to find. Of all the genres churned out by Hollywood, westerns were the most sellable abroad. So, at the global box office at least, this trio still held sway, justifying their hefty fees.

Clay Lomax (Gregory Peck), just out of prison, seeks vengeance on ex-partner Sam Foley (James Gregory) who shot him in the back after a robbery, leaving him to carry the can, and made off with the loot, which he has used to build a ranching empire. Learning Lomax is out, Foley puts a sadistic trio – Pepe (Pepe Serna), Skeeter (John Chandler) and Bobby Jay Jones (Robert F. Lyons) – on his trail, with orders not to kill him, which is pure torture for the bloodthirsty thugs, but just to track him and report on his whereabouts. But thuggery will out, and instead the thugs kill Trooper (Jeff Corey) in heinous fashion.

Quite why the narrative dictates that the gunslingers are not to kill Lomax is anyone’s guess because it makes little sense, unless Foley is aware how unfair a fight it will be and that the veteran outlaw will be more than a match for his crew. And that’s how it turns out, Clay knocks them six ways to Sunday and that’s just for disturbing his peace in a hotel.

The narrative takes another odd twist with the arrival of the seven-year-old Becky (Dawn Lyn) who is put in Lomax’s charge. When he fails to offload her, he takes her with him, only stopping off to bushwhack the thugs and steal their weapons.

Quite why Lomax doesn’t just shoot the gunslingers and be done with it is also anyone’s guess but that leaves the trio able to jump Lomax when he’s taken refuge with the kind of widow drifters tend to come across in westerns. It gets quite unnecessarily confusing at this point but given Lomax is close to finding Foley something needs to create a delay.

And that’s done with an overlong unduly sadistic session by Bobby Jay as he attempts to emulate the Swizzer by shooting cups off Becky’s head. But the upshot of all this is Bobby Jay ends up killing his buddies and making off with the kid. Naturally, Lomax is soon in pursuit, but the promised “shoot out” doesn’t materialize, at least not in the traditional sense of gunmen facing each other in the main street.

What makes the movie work is what they should have concentrated on in the first place, Lomax taking a parental interest in the girl. That neither wants the other makes for decent enough tension and there are enough moments to flesh out their relationship, with Lomax unwilling to accept that he might well actually be her father.

Of course, a jailbird as a father doesn’t sit right with the filmmakers, even though Lomax is clearly capable of keeping the little one washed and fed and comfortable at night. So that’s where your lonely widow Juliana (Patricia Quinn) comes in. Interestingly, that’s the only scene that’s completely devoid of sentiment. She’s had long enough – five years – of loneliness and consoling herself with whisky at night to be happy to take the first half-decent fella who comes her way.

The action, when Lomax is sorting things out fist first, is acceptable enough, but whatever movie Hathaway and Co thought they were making just doesn’t come off. Certainly, it doesn’t come close to True Grit.

Rio Conchos (1964) ***

Starts and ends as a rootin’-tootin’ western but sags badly in between. The chance of turning it into The Magnificent Four or even The Dirty Pair go a-begging and it’s both revenge- and redemption-driven without either taking enough precedent. And there’s a curious dynamic in that the murderers are clearly smarter than the soldiers. Set in the aftermath of the Civil War, it’s engaging enough but too episodic and far short of a classic.

Lassiter (Richard Boone) kills Apaches with brutal efficiency in revenge for losing wife and child to them. But there’s no law against murdering Native Americans, not even when they form a harmless burial party, and when arrested by Captain Haven (Stuart Whitman) it’s for buying a stolen rifle, part of a consignment of 2,000 feared to be heading into the hands of the Apaches and a rogue Confederate Col Pardee (Edmond O’Brien), under whom Lassiter once served.

Charged with going undercover to get the weapons back is Haven, who lost the cargo in the first place, and another soldier Franklyn (Jim Brown), posing as gunpowder salesmen. Lassiter is freed from jail along with exceptionally vain murderer Rodriguez (Anthony Franciosa). From captured Apache Sally (Wende Wagner) they discover the Apaches are hooking up three days hence with Pardee in Rio Conchos in Mexico.

Mostly, it’s tension between the soldiers and their captives-turned-colleagues. There’s an incident with a dead baby at a house attacked by Apaches, Lassiter shooting the tortured mother. Lassiter attacks a saloon keeper for refusing to serve Franklyn. Pardee is building an army to re-start the war. There’s a brutal scene of the men being dragged behind horses. While Haven plans to use the gunpowder to blow up the Apaches and/or the rifles, Lassiter and Rodriguez nurture plans to steal the cargo.

Lassiter is pretty smart, twice outwitting the Apaches by using fire as a distracting device, easily getting the better of Haven and more than a match for the duplicitous Rodriguez. But there’s a powder keg waiting to explode in more ways than one, the chances of Lassiter toadying along to Apaches seeming remote.

Richard Boone (Night of the Following Day, 1969) coming off Have Gun –Will Travel (1957-9163) and The Richard Boone Show (1963-1964) is impressive as the wily renegade. Here’s one of those actors you never quite know what he’s going to do and that unpredictability adds continuous tension, but it would probably have helped if the audience was fully filled in on his intentions, rather than being surprised all the time. Given he was the star here, he was allotted time to be seen making up his mind in various situations, something he would be denied as a later supporting actor. So when there’s not really much going, he creates tension.

Stuart Whitman (Sands of the Kalahari, 1965) doesn’t really have enough to do what with Boone’s character always being one step ahead and clearly more attuned to danger. Anthony Franciosa (Fathom, 1967) has a gem of role, adding to his characterization with little bits of scene-stealing business, sharpening a knife on a wagon wheel, recovering a knife from the stomach of a victim being dragged away by a horse, snaffling a packet of cigarettes, and never ceasing to admire his attraction to women.

Jim Brown (The Split, 1968) makes a solid movie debut, offering more by his presence than in action terms since for the most part he is just the sidekick. Wende Wagner (Guns of the Magnificent Seven, 1969) has more screen time but mostly just smolders or looks sullen apart from a nice scene mourning the baby and another defying her tribe. Look out for Edmond O’Brien (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, 1962) and silent child actor Warner Anderson.

The action sequences are well done and director Gordon Douglas (Robin and the Seven Hoods, 1964) also deserves credit for allowing Boone such scope while the opening scene and the death of the unseen woman are exceptional. He has a great gift for the widescreen, but the movie could have done with more clarity. It’s not his fault the poster was misleading and led me into the picture with different expectations. The screenplay by Joseph Landon (Von Ryan’s Express, 1965) and Clair Huffaker (The War Wagon, 1967) was based on the latter’s book.

The Wicked Die Slow (1968) *

Companion piece to Hot Spur. Not excused fitting into same one-star sleaze western category as Hot Spur (1969) even with some elements that appear at odds with the tale, such as playing around with the time signatures. The best bit is the credits, or as they’re dubbed here the “visual effects,” a series of paintings that send a message of a woman clawing her face. Quite why the movie involves so many extreme close-ups and a heck of lot of birds tweeting in the background.

There’s an outrageously clever sequence involving a young woman brushing down her horse and an approaching rider. The way the man sneaks around hidden by trees and foliage makes you think he’s up to no good. The woman certainly thinks so, she whips out a shotgun. Then the fellow produces an apple. So you change your mind. He’s a good guy. He’s going to feed the horse. Except he tosses the apple into bushes some distance away and she shoots at it. He does the same with another apple. She gets off a shot at that, too.

Then he steps out of the trees as most certainly a bad guy. She’s not reloaded her shotgun. She’s out of bullets. As he points out her predicament. While he’s a man with a pistol. Except he means her no harm. Which is just as well because she’s extremely vulnerable – she’s already been raped by her father.

It’s only now we actually get down to some narrative – the visitor, name of Steve (Bart Lenoir) is hunting for his brother Luke aka “The Kid” (Gary Allen) with whom this girl temporarily hooked up with.

Then we’ve got a preacher man, addicted to snuff, who saunters into a town and starts giving it hellfire and brimstone on the back of a wagon. He’s actually a bounty hunter and when he catches up with his prey teaches them – as in repeat after me – how to pray before he puts a bullet through their head.

But after this unusual start it’s quickly down to the lowest common denominator – rapes, nudity, violence, torture – the same elements as dominated Hot Spur. Sexploitation, or as it was known back in the day, apparently, a “roughie.”

*This image comes from the credit sequence.*

So now we’re also ducking around with time. Four Native Americans have raped gunfighter The Kid’s girlfriend (Susannah Campbell) and he wants revenge. He’s not so vengeful that he doesn’t have time to stop off for a bit of consensual sex with a complaint women, cue naked breasts, while he has to avoid, for reasons unknown, some kind of lynch party. Naturally, when he’s not naked, he’s given to wearing a poncho.

This isn’t some torture yarn, as you might expect from the title (that’s a reference to the Biblical Hell) nor, as I expected, a spaghetti western, since Amazon Prime directed me to this as a reward for watching Django (1966). Nobody’s planning on giving the bad guys a lingering death. Just death.

And, given the opening section, that might well have provided sufficient ingredients for a decent revenge western and we’ve had plenty of those where extraneous sexuality has not been called for. But that’s not the case here. The story is just an excuse for rampant nudity and brutality directed at women.

In due course, The Kid teams up with Mexican bandit Armadillo (Jeff Kanew).

Then it really gets nasty in the Hot Spur vein.

There’s another curiosity here. The film is attributed to Cannon, the production outfit most association with Israeli double act Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus, but this was made long before the pair got into the Death Wish franchise business or ponying up $15 million to Sylvester Stallone for Over the Top (1987). And in fact, Golan-Globus had nothing to do with The Wicked Die Slow. They didn’t buy Cannon until much later. This was made by Cannon when it was owned by Christopher Dewey and Dennis Friedland while they were in the exploitation business.

Directed by William K. Henniger (See How They Come, 1968) and it’s generally assumed someone else did the first 30 minutes or so. Written by stars Gary Allen and Jeff Kanew.

Nobody comes out of this with any kudos except for Swede artist Maria Nordenson who created the credit sequence and whoever directed the first section.

Hot Spur fans should head for Amazon Prime.

Django (1966) ****

You’re not going to get a more iconic opening than a cowboy dragging a coffin up a muddy hill. But just in case you think director Sergio Corbucci is trying to make some high-falutin’ statement, the next few minutes contain nine deaths and a woman whipped and then threatened with being burned to death. What followed resulted in deserved cult status, helped along by a ban from the British censor. Outside Sergio Leone 1960s western quartet, this is generally considered to be the best spaghetti western of the period.

You’ll be familiar with the story, because basically it’s a rehash of A Fistful of Dollars, which in itself was an uncredited rehash of Akira Kurosawa’s Yojimbo (1961).

On the Mexican-U.S. border, two groups vie for control of a tiny town (population: six – one bartender and five whores), one led by ex-Confederate Major Jackson (Eduardo Fajardo) who would be dressed in the red shirts of revolutionaries except that the opposing bunch led by General Rodriguez’s (Jose Badalo) has chosen that color.

Django (Franco Nero) arrives in the town accompanied by the whipped woman Maria (Loredana Nusciak) and the coffin, which contains a machine gun. Django wants revenge on Jackson who killed his lover. But that’s as much a MacGuffin as you need because, really, slaughter is the name of the game, not to mention a gold heist, then a heist of the stolen gold, which is stashed safely in Django’s coffin until it ends up in the quicksand.

This being a spaghetti western naturally there’s mutilation, Django’s hands crushed for the audacity of his theft, someone else forced to eat his own ear, and there’s attempted rape. Mostly, there’s massacre. A humungous heap of bodies provide the entertainment. Jackson and the General are equally intent on killing as many people as possible, Rodriguez having the moral edge because he’s the legitimate revolutionary but it’s a close run thing.

But the good guys are always a hefty massacre away from safety.

For reasons known only to mythmakers, the final shoot-out takes place in a cemetery in Tombstone, which is a heck of a long way (a mere 500 miles) from the Mexican border, but never mind. But there’s a clever ending, especially when you consider how difficult it is to shoot a revolver with a mangled hand.

This zips along with a ton of brio. Franco Nero (Camelot, 1967) resists the temptation to play up those baby blues. He’s virtually deadpan thoughout, quite an achievement in a movie where everyone else overacts. His character is even more down’n’dirty than The Man with No Name and comes across more as a man of the soil than a gunslinger. For such a violent movie, there’s an acknowledgement of politics that’s akin to the skewered morality of The Wild Bunch (1969). The plot takes us all over the place, but it’s so much fun who the heck cares.

The bloodshed (“excessive and nauseating” was the view of the British censor) was way ahead of its time, representing the reality of war and rebellion far more than the cartoonish killing of Leone’s spaghetti trilogy.

Director Sergio Corbucci (The Great Silence, 1968) isn’t trying to sell us a traditional western with sweeping vistas and terrific camerawork. This falls into the nihilistic vein. The huge tranches of mud at the outset set the tone, the land is barren and bleak, a desert of mud. There’s nothing opportunistic or greedy about Django. He’s not intent on playing off two sides for profit. His motive is personal. Where The Man With No Name was fleshed out with a certain amount of charm, there’s no recourse to that here. In a pitiless world, there’s no use for charm. Written by Sergio Corbucci and his brother Bruno.

This spawned as many rip-offs as the Leone versions.

More Dead than Alive (1969) ****

You wonder why some actors never make it big. Clint Walker, with a hefty television career behind him, was one of the many graduates from The Dirty Dozen (1967). But whereas such disparate characters as Donald Sutherland (Mash, 1970), Charles Bronson (Farewell Friend, 1968), Jim Brown (100 Rifles, 1969) and even Telly Savalas (though mostly on the small screen) went on to become substantial marquee names, soft-spoken square-jawed gentle giant Clint Walker was left by the wayside. He still earned some top-billed credits, but these were all in low-budget programmers.

The odd thing is that had he come onto the scene a decade later when muscle-bound hunks like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenneger were all the rage he might have easily jumped to the top. Ironically, another muscleman Mike Henry (Tarzan and the Great River, 1967) pops up here, as if to prove to the newcomer that muscle no longer cuts it in Hollywood when slimmer stars like Paul Newman and Steve McQueen are all the rage and even denoted tough guys like Lee Marvin lack the heavyweight build.

Like the climax to The Wild Bunch (1969), the opening section is a paeon to the glories of the Gatling Gun as it mows down a posse of prisoners trying to escape. Cain (Clint Walker) is one of the few jailbirds who simply hunkers down and refuses to consider running. Whether it’s this determination not to cause the guards any trouble or some unexpected softer approach on the part of the authorities, he is later set free after serving 18 years.

It’s only then we realize he’s actually “Killer Cain” with twelve notches (presumably one for every death) on his revolver. But he’s determine to go straight and refuses the opportunity offer by travelling showman Dan Ruffallo (Vincent Price) to even play the part of the bad guy. But his record goes against him when trying to find employment. So he takes on the job of delivery guy only to end up in the arms of some thugs from prison led by Luke Santee (Mike Henry) who has a score to settle. Having beaten him up, they decide not to finish him off, so they can enjoy the pleasure of beating him up over and over. Given Clint Eastwood has set the tone for the hero being badly beaten up and/or left for dead, the thumping Cain takes tends towards the excessive.

So if you’re trying to get a killer to disavow his plan to avoid violence, that’s not the best plan. When Cain escapes, you expect this to turn into a revenge western. Except it doesn’t. It’s an avoidance western, Cain trying to stay out of the way of any kind of shooting.

There are some interesting directorial aspects. It looks very much as if Robert Sparr, a television director making his movie debut, has absorbed the influences of the French New Wave. There are jump cuts all over the place. We cut from Cain looking forlorn at night to him standing in a queue in daylight looking for a job. We go from an outdoor encounter with Ruffalo to suddenly the pair of them sitting down inside.

And as with like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Wild Bunch, both out the same year, the message is that the Old West is dying. Not only do we have primitive mechanized transport in the shape of a bicycle there’s also a rudimentary telephone while gunmen are more likely to prosper showing off their skills in a tent than being a gun for hire for ambitious ranchers and the like.

This is determinedly offbeat, not falling into the standard narrative traps for the genre. Cain, while trying to shed the murderous aspects of his previous life, eventually goes to work in the circus. That sets him down in the moral mire, taking advantage of his infamous reputation while at the same time not lifting a gun in anger and wooing artist Monica (Anne Francis).

However, no surprise this is under-rated. In part that’s because it doesn’t deliver on the early violent promise, the title very much a misnomer, so those expecting a spaghetti western leave disappointed while anyone looking for much else wouldn’t be attracted by the violence and the title. In fact, it’s a very thoughtful piece. Not entirely original because criminal-going-straight is standard stuff, usually quickly snookering the good guy-bad guy into mostly bad guy activity, regardless of his justification for doing so. But here, the killer manages to avoid further bloodshed despite continuous provocation.

Apart from the moral aspect, it treads an interesting path between demystifying the Old West and mystifying it. Monica has come west to capture the Old West before it dies away. There’s a ghost town but the only gunslinging on show is staged. Cain is a major attraction because peace-loving law-abiding folks like nothing better than seeing a genuine killer up close.

The notches on his gun weren’t acquired in typical Hollywood hero style with a shootout in the main street and the good guy never drawing first. In fact, most of Cain’s killings fall into the dubious category.

Most westerns take place over a short period of time, just as long as it takes to set up the good guys and the bad guys with a bit of romance on the side. This takes place over a year and romance is very slow-burn so that artist Monica nips in and out of the narrative.

Having a record blunts Cain’s attempts to get a decent job, the only long-term work as a bouncer in a saloon until his pseudonym is blown. He joins the Wild West Show only to twice quit it, either when he is riled by intemperate gunman wannabe Billy (Billy Valence) or when he comes face to face with old lawman Carson. At the end he returns to earn enough cash to buy some livestock for a farm.

There are three significant deaths, two sudden, and all offer something unusual in that department. The ending is as unexpected as it is shocking.

Both Clint Walker (The Great Bank Robbery, 1969) and Vincent Price (Witchfinder General/The Conqueror Worm, 1968) deliver excellent subdued performances, the latter far removed from his usual horror line and the lugubrious tones kept in check. Anne Francis (The Satan Bug, 1965) has a rare big screen outing. Written by George Schenck (Barquero, 1970).

You would not call this – outside of the jump cuts – particularly stylistic, equally it avoids the visual traps of endless sunsets or panoramas and we’re not subjected to minutes wasted just watching cowboys ride somewhere. But it definitely is a cut above in terms of thematic complexity, in the ability to tell a story over a period of time, and to take the hero in an unexpected direction.

The Hills Run Red (1966) ****

Pretty decent revenge western boasting a couple of superb set pieces. No wonder Clint Eastwood made the decision to play down the emotions on The Man with No Name, because this is a good example of how pop-eyed emotions can get when restraint is missing especially when you’ve got Henry Silva in the mix. The lead Thomas Hunter is not, as you came to expect in spaghetti westerns, an Italian dude anglicizing his name, but a genuine Yank, heading to Europe to further his career whereas Hollywood veteran Dan Duryea is extending his. Bonus of an Ennio Morricone score.

A pair of Johnny Rebs, making off with Unionist loot, at the end of the Civil War, make an unusual pact. One, Jerry Brewster (Thomas Hunter), takes the rap for the heist, while his partner Ken Seagull (Nando Gazzallo) the other makes off with the loot, promising, as part of the deal, to look after his buddy’s wife and child. Five years later, the freed Jerry returns home to find his pal’s reneged on the deal, wife is dead, son Tim an orphan, and Ken, now a wealthy rancher, is more intent on muscling up and eliminating his rival than keeping to his side of the bargain.

Jerry teams up with drifter Winny Getz (Dan Duryea) who gets himself a job on the ranch where tough foreman Garcia (Henry Silva) enjoys handing out beatings. There’s a smidgeon of nascent romance, not enough to get in the way of the action, when Ken’s sister Mary Ann (Nicoletta Machiavelli) takes pity on the roughed-up Jerry.

But let’s cut to the chase. There’s a brilliant ambush by Ken’s rivals. His high-handed methods have upset the townspeople and other ranchers. So with the help of our hero they ambush Ken’s cowboys herd horses through a canyon by rolling down on them rolls of tumbleweed set aflame, decimating the cowboys by picking them off from the cliffs.

At the end a two-man army of Jerry and Winny (make it a two-and-a-half-man-army if we count in Tim, no mean shakes with a catapult) takes on a regiment of Garcia’s thugs in the town, fighting them on the rooftops and the streets, with the help of sticks of dynamite. This is tremendous stuff. I watched it immediately after seeing Dillinger (1973) and noted that I had automatically accorded the John Milius gangster picture top marks for the various shoot-outs whereas I was so used to shoot-outs in westerns that the tendency was to write them off. Whereas, this one, in particular, was easily on a par with the Milius, better in some ways because the two heroes had to be a good bit more inventive to outwit the enemy.

The climax at the ranch between Jerry and Ken is also well done, the pair employing clever tricks, and half the scene taking place in darkness.

The pace never lets up. The action is constant. Good plans become undone by spies. Saloons are wrecked. There are punch-ups and shoot-outs galore and some excellent lines and neat situations such as when the prison guards steal Jerry’s dough on release and send him off minus his gun.

Nobody who wasn’t already a star made much marquee headway from this and largely it’s been viewed as a western programmer, slotted into the lower half of a double bill, and largely forgotten. But perhaps because there’s no star requiring special treatment with slick lines and a denoted love interest and the kind of scene that always seems written just to give a big star a big moment, this falls into the leaner category, where the story is kept simple, the action continuous and whatever genuine emotion we require is limited to loss (of wife) and recovery (of son).

That still leaves room for Garcia to put on a whole show for himself and Winny to underplay him at every turn.

Thomas Hunter (The Magnificent Tony Carrera, 1968) might surprise in not offering the Yank equivalent of the traditional British upper lip, but sometimes we do under-do things by limiting male emotion, so you could view this as some kind of breakthrough for the incontinently emotional man. Henry Silva (Johnny Cool, 1963), with no restraint applied, just lets rip. Dan Duryea (Five Golden Dragons, 1967), in his last important role, enjoys a last hurrah.

Carlo Lizzani (The Violent Four, 1968) directs from a script by Piero Regnoli (Matchless, 1964).

Worth a look. Reassessment long overdue. What they used to call a rip-roaring western.

Lawman (1971) *****

Virtually every film by British director Michael Winner was either despised or under-rated. Sure, he appeared at the wrong time, when critics were in the thrall of such stylists as Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Arthur Penn and Steven Spielberg, guys who couldn’t tell a story without adding something distinctive and individual. It didn’t help that Winner came across as cocky and arrogant and chewed on cigars as if he was Orson Welles. His copybook was eternally blotted after Death Wish (1974) and possibly before then for consorting with the likes of Charles Bronson who did not fit the critical palette in terms of a western hero.

So I’ve come out swinging big-style for this extraordinary number for its moral complexity and revisionism. It doesn’t exactly turn the genre on its head but it’s the most honest and realistic western you’ll come across and with rasping dialogue where every word counts. Sheriff Cotton Ryan (Robert Ryan) is a coward, bought and sold by local rancher Vincent Bronson (Lee J. Cobb). Old flame Laura (Sheree North) is willing to jump into bed with the titular lawman Jared Maddox (Burt Lancaster) to save her partner Hurd Price (J.D. Cannon) and just as likely to bed Maddox anyway out of pure lust. But then she’s just as likely to feel sorry for one Maddox’s captives, Vernon (Robert Duvall), and sneak him out a gun and endanger her old lover.

Price and Laura had such a miserable spread and are such poor farmers, hooked by a dream that needs more than dreaming to turn it into a reality, that any crops they raise only feed the weevils. On the other hand Bronson, unlike the ranchers in other westerns, doesn’t want to posse up and hunt down the lawman. His skill set errs on the side of negotiation, bribery and blackmail. The young gunslinger Crowe (Richard Jordan) doesn’t end up, as usual for the genre, as easy meat.

Whenever John Wayne set off to right a wrong he generally had the audience on his side. The injustice committed against him, or that was walking into, was clear.

There’s nothing clear about who murdered an old man in Maddox’s home town of Bannock. It was an accident, or the kind of accident you get when a bunch of drunken outlaws shoot up a town. No idea who fired the fatal bullet. It could anyone out of seven visitors. We don’t even find out anything about the victim. He’s little more than a MacGuffin.

And Maddox isn’t vengeance on a horse. He’s not out to kill anyone. He doesn’t know who to blame for the murder, his job is just to round up the suspects. However, the wanted don’t take too kindly to being on his wanted list and a couple of them, namely Vernon and Bronson’s son Jason (John Beck) are itching to put a bullet through the lawman’s head, by fair means or foul, via the traditional shootout in main street or as conveniently the bullet in the back or the trail ambush.

Maddox is implacable. “A lawman is a killer of men. That’s what the job calls for.” Even though he agrees his task is a murky one, and little chance of divining the actual killer, and even the possibility that for lack of such clarity the judge hearing the case will simply let everyone off, he’s still obsessed with doing what needs done, rounding up the suspects, killing them if need be if they oppose the rule of law.

The townspeople aren’t much help, up in arms at the prospect of a widow-maker in their midst, and not keen on the law being enforced when their own lawman takes such a different view. Cotton Tyan, at one point, was a good and feared lawman. But those days are long past. “Everyone remembers Fort Bliss,” he mutters ruefully before reeling off the list of his failures.

As I mentioned the dialog is superb. No room for banter or repartee here. Every word comes with a hammer behind it.

“I ain’t afraid of him,” remonstrates wannabe gunslinger Crowe. “You would be,” retorts Ryan, “if you had brains enough to spit.”

To prevent Hurd from leaving Laura pleads, “But Maddox promised nothing would happen to you.” Hurd snaps, “But what did you promise him?”

Saloon owner Lucas (Joseph Wiseman), with whom Maddox has history, challenges his approach. “You’re wrong here.” “Not from where I stand,” says Maddox. “You can’t see from where you stand.”

Although Winner is too fond of a recent technological innovation, the zoom shot, the rest of the filming, like the tale itself, is somber. There are some nice touches. We are introduced to Maddox as he towers above the camera. And it’s only when the camera changes angle that we realize the load on his packhorse is actually a corpse.

I’ve never seen a western where anyone, despite riding through endless barren plains, is covered in dust. But here, Maddox’s eyes have a patina of dust. Ryan uses a horseshoe as a paperweight. His town is largely crime free because it lacks a railhead. Like a Henry Hathaway western, we get a good idea of the makeup of the town from signs on buildings.

The action scenes are terrific. Killing a man’s horse in the wilderness is as good as killing the man. The only time Ryan chips in is to help arrest someone committing crime in his own town, and in that section he and Maddox work as a team communication through nods and gestures.

The ending, had it gone to plan, would have turned the genre on its head, Maddox deciding he’s done enough killing and planning to leave without making any further arrests. But that’s not good enough for Jason, who has something to prove and dies because of it.

Bronson, who’s done his best to avoid outright conflict, also dies, by his own hand, unable to deal with the death of his only remaining son.

Michael Winner (The Nightcomers, 1972) knows he’s dealing with a western icon in Burt Lancaster (The Professionals, 1966) and allows the actor to add another iconic character to his portfolio and trigger the more thoughtful screen persona he would evince in the next two in his “western trilogy” Valdez Is Coming (1971) and Ulzana’s Raid (1972), each successively nudging closer and closer to outright revisionism.

Inveterate tough guy Robert Ryan (The Wild Bunch, 1969) plays mostly against type as the worn-outlawman seeking an easy life. Sheree North (The Gypsy Moths, 1969) makes the most of an unglamorous, conflicted, role. Based on this performance, you wouldn’t figure Robert Duvall on turning into a quiet gangster’s lawyer the following year in The Godfather.

Making his big screen debut is Richard Jordan (Valdez Is Coming, 1971) and on his sophomore appearance is John Beck (The Other Side of Midnight, 1977).

What a debut by screenwriter Gerald Wilson (Chato’s Land, 1972).

Coming to this in reverse order after watching Lancaster in Valdez is Coming and Ulzana’s Raid (1972) and after reappraising Winner following The Nightcomers, I had no idea what to expect. Least of all that I would be so impressed I’d watch it twice straight through.

Superb.

A Man Called Sledge (1970) ***

It’s a risky business for an established star to change their screen persona. The only reason they’ve achieved stardom is because there’s something appealing and even comforting about the persona they’ve adopted. Audiences queue up to see a screen favorite because they know what they’re getting. That still leaves room for chameleons like Dustin Hoffman, whose appeal is the exact opposite, moviegoers don’t know what they’re going to get from one movie to the next.

James Garner (Buddwing, 1966) had a curious screen persona. Sure, he was laid-back and his delivery involved a drawl but his persona, drawn from the scallywag Maverick (1957-1962), also included an element of the sneaky. He wasn’t always as straightforward or heroic (The Americanization of Emily, 1964) as you might expect, but that made him comfortably different.

But it’s one thing to make minor changes to your screen persona, it’s another to dump it completely. Even his combed-back hairstyle is gone as well as the rest of his screen persona as he leans into the sneaky part. He’s an outlaw. And not charming like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) and not hawking around a code of honor like The Wild Bunch (1969) and not a bad guy doing good for whatever reason. His only one redemptive feature is that he’s fallen in love.

On the other hand, if you’re going to play a villain, you better be a smart one, capable of shooting your way out of tricky situations, clever enough to outfox the authorities and able to come up with a plan to steal $300,000 in gold dust from the biggest and most secure safe ever build in the strongest stronghold you could find.

In short order, we are introduced to Luther Sledge (James Garner) robbing a stage, meeting up with girlfriend Ria (Laura Antonelli) and being ambushed in a saloon by gamblers who don’t like losing. Making good his escape, he comes across the Old Man (John Marley) who suggests the unthinkable, stealing the gold. The obvious method would be taking the gold when it’s being transported from the gold mine to the safe.

But it travels with a heck of a guard, more or less a small army, drilled to perfection, armed to the teeth. So, Sledge resorts to the inside job routine. Only problem is the stronghold is actually a prison with 500 prisoners and the safe is inside the maximum security section. Even so, the Old Man, whose done time there, reckons he has listened often enough to the tumblers on the safe being turned that they won’t need to resort to dynamite and the like.

Sledge gets his buddy Erwin Ward (Dennis Weaver) to act as sheriff taking him in as a prisoner, then once inside he plans to free all the prisoners to create a diversion and tie down the guards.

As you might expect this is achieved with a little hitch here and there to ratchet up the tension. But then when we expect an army of guards in hot pursuit and a massive shootout or Sledge to come up with some other clever way of escaping, it turns into The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) and the tension just drains away, hampered by a cute unbelievable ending where Sledge chooses love over gold.

Somehow the third act robs it of what it had going for it, a tough guy devoid of sentimentality, in the vein of the Lee Marvin of Point Blank (1967). You might as well have inserted an old lady or a kid and be done with it as the reason for Sledge to change his ways and, unfortunately, it just kills off interest in the character. Redemption isn’t what we came for. You can get that any day of the week at the movies. But, ruthlessness, that’s a different story and you’d be surprised how well that can play.

Maybe there’s some unseen Hollywood code. If you’re a proper star, you can only be a tough guy if you don’t kill people (i.e. Butch Cassidy though not The Sundance Kid) or if your toughness is in pursuit of bad guys (True Grit, 1969).

There are some other interesting elements. There’s a second ambush, a street shoot-out, a la The Wild Bunch. There’s a banjo-playing deputy sheriff and a keen-eyed Sheriff (Wayde Preston) who can suss out a wrong ‘un. Dead men earn their keep, either on horseback providing cover or lying on the ground where their pistols come in handy. A small town is emptied by people attending a funeral, masked faces and all.

And there’s a good bit of sense – a Derringer has such a short range that a prison guard with the necessary keys for escape has to be passed cell by cell down a row until he can come within shooting distance for the gun to achieve its threat.

James Garner is indeed excellent in his new disguise, drawl gone, hair flopping all over the place, not a quip in sight. There’s not much room for anyone else though Claude Akins (Return of the Seven, 1966) deserves a nod. Italian Laura Antonelli (The Innocent, 1976) as the hooker in love sparkles though I’m guessing she was dubbed. John Marley (The Godfather, 1972) is a scene-stealing role does his best to steal the movie from Garner.

Actor Victor Morrow directed this, his sophomore effort. He had a hand in the screenplay, too. He parlayed the fame he’s achieved from long-running television series Combat (1962-1967) in attempting to shift him from being cast as the bad guy on the big screen but, unfortunately, he’s best remembered not for this but for his tragic ending, when he died on the set of Twilight Zone: The Movie (1983).

Which is a shame because this is a decent enough effort.

Engaging enough when in heist mode, less so when it disappears down the Sierra Madre rabbit hole.

Blue (1968) *****

Easily the most underrated western of all time. Few people saw it on release and precious few since. If remembered at all, it’s for reasons of movie trivia. Robert Redford got into a legal fight with Paramount when he pulled out of the starring role. And it was what was being shot in the background of the Burt Reynolds movie Fade In (1968).

Decades before cultural appropriation was a major no-no, Americans didn’t take too kindly to Brits taking on top-billed roles in westerns. Audiences sniggered at Dirk Bogarde as a Mexican bandit in The Singer Not the Song (1960), John Mills proved an obstacle to audience acceptance of Chuka (1967) and Shalako (1969) starring Sean Connery, the world’s biggest box office draw at the time, would become a huge flop Stateside.

Yet there are some extraordinary moments here. Some, frankly, I’m astonished never rated a mention at the time nor since. The director’s use of natural sound is ground-breaking. For a start, there’s very little music, none of the triumphal brass that generally accompanies hordes of cowboys racing across plains. Often, here, all we get is hoofbeats. In terms of the aural Hitchcock would have applauded one scene, where a man is hunted through tall grass. All we hear is the crackling sound of the pursuers as they stalk him through the dried-out terrain.

Most times when in other films we see a bunch of cowboys charging along, it’s filmed from the front or the side. Reason being, shoot it from the back and you’ve got to deal with all the dust churned up by the hooves. Not so, here, bring on the dust. Let’s have something new.

There’s even a nod to The Searchers (1956), the famous doorway scenes, but here the main character is neither coming nor coming but cannot make up his mind whether to do either and so slouches against the doorframe.

The opening sequence is The Wild Bunch (1969) in reverse. It’s the good guys in the town, and the bandits who create the ambush and, minus Peckinpah’s obsession with bloodletting, treat their captives ever bit as brutally. Even here, there are two notable scenes. In the first, our hero Blue (Terence Stamp) has been sitting napping under his hat when a troop of Mexican soldiers arrive. Once they hunker down inside the saloon he throws a huge red scarf in the hair, signal to the watching bandits. Then, after the soldiers have been routed, and their leader is still trying to make a stand, Blue races up behind and whips away first his upraised gun, then his hat, then the man himself.

And these are not ordinary bandits. You might think they are given our post-action introduction to them shows them whoring, gambling and fighting. But actually they are revolutionaries and leader Ortega (Ricardo Montalban) has a strategic brain and realizes that they have to take the fight across the river to the Americans – on their most important day of the year, July 4^th, Independence Day – and get them so riled up they do something about the inequities in Mexico.

And he has his work cut out to rein in his rebellious son and the concerns raised by his number two that the life, hiding out in the hills and sleeping in caves, is losing its appeal to his followers. So, intelligent bandits.

The Americans might not be particularly bothered by their neighbors, but still they’ve got a stuffed mannikin hanging from a noose with the word “Greasers” written upon its chest. The bandits break up the party, rob the Yanks, but for some reason leave the enemy with all their weapons, allowing the farmers to form an immediate posse and set off in pursuit.

Blue is shot but makes his way to a farmhouse where, luckily for him, he is tended by farmer’s daughter Joanne (Joanna Pettet) whom he previously saved from rape. It’s a bit of a tip-off that the fugitive goes by the name Azul (the Spanish word for “blue”) to the Mexicans given, I’m assuming, all Mexicans are brown-eyed. So he must be an outlander. And so he is, brought up by the Mexican bandits.

At first he appears to be of the Clint Eastwood persuasion, monosyllabic to the point of dumbness, but, eventually, in a quite brilliant scene, forced to utter a word before Joanna cuts his throat with a razor, an idea that found its way, as I recall, into Alan Parker’s Mississippi Burning (1988).

And if ever action carries more meaning than words, it’s in the scene where Joanne discovers Blue has apparently fled only to spy him ploughing the fields. As you might expect, whether an American male or female is brought up by Native Americans (Hombre, 1967) or as here Mexicans, they find it hard to be accepted. The issue is forced upon his new countrymen when the bandits return, and Blue has to choose a side.

Blue was an orphan thanks to racism against his American parents when they settled in Mexico. And he suffers, unfairly you would say given he was born in the U.S., from racism again when he crosses the border.

The sex scene is brilliantly handled, relying both on sight and sound. It’s Joanna who has to instigate it, instinctively knowing that he won’t make any move in case it is wrongly interpreted. The father, noting her bedroom is empty, begins to walk along the corridor to Blue’s room. Hearing his footsteps, Joanna turns out the light. Seeing the light go out, the father retreats – on tiptoe.

There’s also the best demonstration of pistol shooting this side of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the following year. And without taking anything away from the Robert Redford scene, it’s remarkably similar.

And Blue proves himself to be a brilliant tactician. He sets up a stunning ambush and the bandits are slaughtered from both sides of the river when they attempt to cross. His leadership, unusually, sets up emotional issues. When Joanne reacts against this new tough side of him, it’s her father that calms her. But that isn’t the peach. Blue confesses that he enjoys killing, it “pleasures” him.

I’m afraid to say the ending of Butch Cassidy also has remarkable similarities to this. There it’s the freeze frame that encapsulates the death of the heroes. Here, the camera draws back and back into the sky as Joanne holds her dead lover in the river.

Terence Stamp (The Collector, 1965) doesn’t quite have enough going on behind the eyes to become a top-class actor so sensibly director Silvio Narrazino (Georgy Girl, 1966) avoids going in too close on the baby blues and allows the actor freedom of movement to reveal his feelings, the slouching in the doorway one example, another being Blue’s slow realization that much of what he sees in the farmer’s house is familiar. Stamp acquits himself well in the action scenes.

But Joanna Pettet (The Best House in London, 1969) is the revelation. We’re quite used to spunky or feisty females in westerns. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen one who takes control with subtlety. Her father Doc Morton (Karl Malden) can’t get a word out of Blue no matter the threats uttered and violence threatened. But when Joanna takes up a cut-throat razor for the first time in her life and begins to trim his stubble, deliberately making a hash of it, that’s as novel a meet-cute as you’re going to find as well as one of the best definitions of female character that you’ll see in a western.

Written by Meade Roberts (The Stripper, 1963) and Ronald M. Cohen (The Good Guys and the Bad Guys, 1969).

One of the most stylish and innovative westerns you’ll ever see and you need to watch it with your ears attuned to sound.

A true find.

Death Rides A Horse (1967/1969) ****

Although Once Upon a Time in the West (1969) is my all-time favorite western and although the first X-certificate movie I sneaked into as a teenager was The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966/1968), I never had much interest in spaghetti westerns. For a start, by the time I started my serious cinemagoing – bear in mind I grew up in towns without picture houses – the spaghetti western sub-genre was long gone.

So I was surprised to find how stylish and intriguing this little number was. People had odd ideas about style: they think it’s about capturing a vista at sunset or the way a director moves the camera or some effect gained from the cinematography. But there are other, as important, aspects. And two, perhaps the smallest of the effective ingredients, are on show here.

The first comes with the opening shot. Some cowboys are braving torrential rain. Now movie rain doesn’t behave the same way as real rain. It’s directed and its force depends on something else beyond nature. It’s too consistent in the way that real rain isn’t. So to convince us that these dudes are enduring a storm, director Giulio Petroni has set up on the very edge of the screen a lamp that moves, twisting one way and the other as the wind shifts direction, flaring up and flickering down depending on the position it holds. That little thing was what it took to convince me this was a storm.

The second thing was the editing. Again, critics intend to focus on some unusual aspect. Fast-cutting, for example, as in The Wild Bunch (1969) or cutting between a match and a sunrise (Lawrence of Arabia, 1962)) or from one pillow to another in separate households (Zee & Co, X Y & Zee, 1972). But actually the biggest benefit of good editing is to keep the story moving and not waste time

So here we cut from our blue-eyed anti-hero Bill (John Philip Law) being told to meet a bad guy in his office. Next thing, Bill is entering a darkened room. Automatically, you think this is a trap, that he’s going into villainous saloon owner Cavanaugh’s (Anthony Dawson) office. Instead, he confronts the other anti-hero, criminal Ryan (Lee Van Cleef), just released from prison after 15 years. And without any dialog to otherwise explain the situation, we understand immediately from previous interaction that Bill has been hired by the bad guy to kill Ryan.

There’s countless examples of this kind of editing where action sets the tone rather than dialog, although in the latter regard some of the lines are filled with edge.

Bill and Ryan really should be working as a team. They both want revenge on the same gang of outlaws, Bill because, as a child, he witnessed the gang murder his family and rape his mother and sister, and Ryan because he was fitted up for the robbery the gang committed. But both want the sole satisfaction of carrying out the revenge.

Ryan is something of a mentor to the greenhorn, a skilled gunslinger without the smarts necessary to hold his own. Ryan constantly shows Bill how much he still has to learn about looking after himself and the teaching comes with sharp consequence, Bill left horseless on two occasions and having to tramp miles into the nearest town.

So they get in each other’s way. Bill kills Cavanaugh without realizing that the only reason the businessman is still alive is that Ryan wants reparation from him of $15,000 – $1,000 for each of the years he spent in prison. And now he saddles Bill with that debt.

Ryan knows exactly who he’s hunting down but Bill has to do it the hard way, following a series of clues, personal elements of the masked guys who slaughtered his family, someone who wears distinctive spurs, another with a tattoo on his chest and so on.

This proves a particularly good twist on the older guy-younger guy narrative device so often used in Hollywood. The rivalry rarely cools, Bill taking simple revenge on Ryan at any opportunity.

Eventually, they do agree to work together after Bill works out that Ryan was one of the gang, except that the older man arrived too late to take part in the massacre but just in time to save Bill from being consumed by a raging fire.

The last twist is saved for the climax.

United Artists waited until Sergio Leone’s “Dollars” trilogy had opened the box office doors in America before pushing this out in 1969 (hence the odd dating). Lee Van Cleeef essays a more considered version of his Man in Black persona from For a few Dollars More (1965/1967). John Philip Law (Barbarella, 1969) would never work out, unlike George Peppard, say, that the intensity of his gaze and the blueness of his eyes distracted from his acting.

Put me in mind to check out some of the other spaghetti westerns directed by Guilio Petroni such as A Sky Full of Stars for a Roof (1968). Written by Luciano Vincenzoni (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly).

Well worth a look.