Western – Page 3 – The Magnificent 60s

Texas Across the River (1966) ****

Excellent comedy western mixing dry wit and occasional slapstick to joyous effect. The wedding between Spanish duke Don Aldrea (Alain Delon) and Louisiana belle Phoebe (Rosemary Forsyth) is interrupted by her previous suitor Yancy (Stuart Cottle) who is killed in the resulting melee. Escaping to Texas, Don Aldrea’s marksmanship leads settler Sam (Dean Martin) to recruit him to help fight raiding Comanches. Romantic entanglement ensues when the Don rescues Native American Lonetta (Tina Marquand) and Sam has more than a passing interest in Phoebe.

It is so tightly structured that nothing occurs that doesn’t have a pay-off further down the line. Bursting with terrific lines – including a stinger of a final quip – and set pieces, it pokes fun at every western cliché from the gunfight, the cavalry in hot pursuit, and fearsome Native Americans to the snake bite and the naked bathing scene. Incompetence is the order of the day – cavalry captain Stimpson (Peter Graves) issues incomprehensible orders, chief’s son Yellow Knife (Michael Linden) cannot obey any.

The Don, with his obsession with honor and his tendency to kiss men on the cheeks, is a comedy gift. Despite his terrific head of hair, he is stuck with the moniker “Baldy” and every time he is about to save the day he manages to ruin it. Sam is the kind of guy who thinks he is showing class by removing his spurs in bed while retaining his boots. His sidekick Kronk (Joey Bishop), a mickey-take on Tonto, mostly is just that, a guy who stands at the side doing nothing but delivering dry observations.

Lonetta is full of Native American lore and has enough sass to keep the Don in his place. “What is life with honor,” he cries to which she delivers the perfect riposte, “What is honor without life?” Phoebe is a hot ticket with not much in the way of loyalty.

Two sequences stand out – the slapping scene (whaat?) and a piece of exquisite comedy timing when Sam, Phoebe and the Don try an iron out a complicated situation.

Good as Dean Martin (Rough Night in Jericho, 1967) is the picture belongs to Alain Delon (Once a Thief, 1965) and I would argue it is possibly his best performance. Never has an actor so played against type or exploded his screen persona. Delon was known for moody, sullen roles, cameras fixated on his eyes. But here he is a delight, totally immersed in a role, not of an idiot, but a man of high ideals suddenly caught up in a country that is less impressed with ideals. If he had played the part with a knowing wink it would never have worked.

Martin exudes such screen charm you are almost convinced he’s not acting at all, but when you compare this to Rough Night in Jericho it’s easy to see why he was so under-rated. Joey Bishop (Ocean’s 11) is a prize turn, with some of the best quips. Rosemary Forsyth (Shenandoah, 1965) is surprisingly good, having made her bones in more dramatic roles, and Tina Marquand (Modesty Blaise, 1966) more than holds her own. Michael Ansara (Sol Madrid, 1968) played Cochise in the Broken Arrow (1956-1958) television series. Under all the Medicine Man get-up you might spot Richard Farnsworth. Peter Graves of Mission Impossible fame is the hapless cavalry leader.

Director Michael Gordon (Move Over, Darling, 1964) hits the mother lode, the story zipping along, every time it seems to be taking a side-step actually nudging the narrative forward. He draws splendid performances from the entire cast, knowing when to play it straight, when to lob in a piece of slapstick, and when to cut away for a humorous reaction, and especially keeping in check the self-indulgence which marred many Rat Pack pictures – two of the gang are here, Martin and Bishop. There’s even a sly nod to Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns when the electric guitar strikes up any time Native Americans appear. Frank De Vol (Cat Ballou, 1965) did the score. Written by Wells Root (Secrets of Deep Harbor, 1961), Ben Starr (Our Man Flint, 1966) and Harold Greene (Hide and Seek, 1964).

Terrific fun.

Ulzana’s Raid (1972) ****

Still stands up as an allegory for the Vietnam War, superior American forces almost decimated by a small band of Apaches engaging in guerilla warfare. After the consecutive flops of Castle Keep (1969) and The Swimmer (1969), Burt Lancaster had unexpectedly shot to the top of Hollywood tree on the back of disaster movie Airport (1970) and consolidated his position with a string of westerns, which had global appeal, of which this was the third. After the commercial high of The Dirty Dozen (1967), director Robert Aldrich had lost his way, in part through an ambitious attempt to set up a mini-studio, his last four pictures including The Legend of Lylah Clare (1968) and The Killing of Sister George (1969) all registering in the red.

Riding a wave of critical acclaim was Scottish screenwriter Alan Sharp whose debut The Last Run (1971) turned on its head the gangster’s last job trope, and its lyrical successor The Hired Hand (1971) had stars and directors queuing up. Here he delivers the intelligent work for which he would become famous, melding Native American lore with a much tougher take on the Indian Wars and the cruelty from both sides.

The narrative follows two threads, the duel between Ulzana (Joaquin Martinez), who has escaped from the reservation, and Army scout MacIntosh (Burt Lancaster); and the novice commander Lt DeBuin (Bruce Davison) earning his stripes. In between ruminations on Apache culture, their apparent cruelty given greater understanding, and some conflict within the troops, bristling at having to obey an inexperienced officer, most of the film is devoted to the battle of minds, as soldiers and Native Americans try to out-think each other.

Shock is a main weapon of Aldrich’s armory. There’s none of the camaraderie or “twilight of the west” stylistic flourishes that distinguished Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) or The Wild Bunch (1969). This is a savage land where a trooper will shoot dead the female homesteader he is escorting back to the fort rather than see her fall into the hands of the Apaches, following this up by blowing his own brains out so that he doesn’t suffer the same fate.

What such fate entails is soon outlined when another homesteader is tortured to death and another woman raped within an inch of her life, the fact that she survives such an ordeal merely a ploy to encourage the Christian commander to detach some of his troops to escort her safely home and so diminish his strength. Instead, in both pragmatic and ruthless fashion, she is used as bait, to tempt the Apaches out of hiding.

The Apaches have other clever tools, using a bugle to persuade a homesteader to venture out of his retreat, and are apt to slaughter a horse so that its blood can contaminate the only drinking water within several miles.

Key to the whole story is transport. The Apaches need horses. These they can acquire from homesteaders. Once acquired, they are used to fox the enemy, the animals led across terrain minus their riders, to mislead the pursuing cavalry and set up a trap. MacIntosh and his Native American guide, Ke-Ni-Tay (Jorge Luke), uncover the trickery and set up a trap of their own. However, the plan backfires. Having scattered the Apache horses, the Apaches redouble their determination to wipe out the soldiers in order to have transport.

There’s a remarkable moment in the final shootout where the soldiers hide behind their horses on the assumption that the Apaches will not shoot the horses they so desperately need. But that notion backfires, too, when they are ambushed from both sides of a canyon.

The twists along the way are not the usual narrative sleight-of-hand but matter-of-fact reversals. The soldiers do not race on to try and overtake their quarry. To do so would over-tire the horses, and contrary to the usual sequences of horsemen dashing through inhospitable terrain, we are more likely to see the soldiers sitting around taking a break. Ulzana is not captured in traditional Hollywood fashion either, no gunfight or fistfight involving either MacIntosh or the lieutenant. Instead, it’s the cunning of Ke-Ni-Tay that does the trick.

There are fine performances all round. Burt Lancaster is in low-key mode, Bruce Davison (Last Summer, 1969) holds onto his Christian principles so far as to bury the Apache dead rather than mutilate them, as was deemed suitable revenge by his corps, but his ideas of extending a hand of friendship to the enemy are killed off. Richard Jaeckel (The Dirty Dozen) communicates more with looks exchanged with MacIntosh than any dialog. Robert Aldrich is back on song, but owes a great deal to the literate screenplay.

Quentin Tarantino acclaimed this and I can’t disagree.

Hombre (1967) ****

Shock beginning, shock ending. In between, while a rift on Stagecoach (1939/1966) – disparate bunch of passengers threatened by renegades – takes a revisionist slant on the western, with a tougher look at the corruption and flaws of the American Government’s policy to Native Americans. Helps, of course, if you have an actor as sensitive as Paul Newman making all your points.

The theme of the adopted or indigenous child raised by Native Americans peaked early on with John Ford’s The Searchers (1956) but John Huston made a play for similar territory in The Unforgiven (1960) and, somewhat unexpectedly, Andrew V. McLaglen makes it an important element of The Undefeated (1969).

This begins with a close-up of a very tanned (think George Hamilton) Paul Newman complete with long hair and bedecked in Native American costume. Apache-raised John Russell (Paul Newman) returns to his roots to claim an inheritance – a boarding house – after the death of his white father. That Russell is a pretty smart dude is shown in the opening sequence where he traps a herd of wild horses after tempting them to drink at a pool. He decides to sell the boarding house to buy more wild horses.

That puts him on a stagecoach with six other passengers – Jessie (Diane Cilento), the now out-of-work manager of the boarding house, retired Indian Agent Professor Favor (Fredric March) and haughty wife Audra (Barbara Rush), unhappily married youngsters Billy Lee (Peter Lazer) and Doris (Margaret Blye), and loud-mouthed cowboy Cicero (Richard Boone). Driving the coach is Mexican Henry (Martin Balsam).

Getting wind that outlaws might be on their trail, Henry takes a different route. But the cowboys still catch up and turns out Cicero is their leader. He takes Audra hostage, though she appears quite willing having tired of her much older husband, steals the thousands of dollars that the corrupt Favor has stolen from the Native Americans, and, also taking much of the available water, leaves the stranded passengers to die in the wilderness.

The passengers might have lucked out given Russell is acquainted with the terrain but they’ve upset the Apache by their overt racism, insisting he ride up with the driver rather than contaminate the coach interior. And the outlaws, having snatched the loot, and Cicero his female prize, should have galloped off into the distance and left it to lawmen to chase after them.

But Russell, faster on the uptake than anyone expects, manages to separate the gangsters from the money, forcing them to come after it. Russell wants the cash to alleviate the plight of starving Native Americans as was originally intended, but he has little interest in doing the “decent thing” and shepherding the others to safety. Ruthless to the point of callous, he nonetheless takes time out from surviving to educate the entitled passengers to the plight of his adopted people.

A fair chunk of the dialog is devoted to Russell explaining why he’s not going to do the decent thing and giving chapter and verse on the indignities inflicted on his people, and that alone would have given the picture narrative heft, especially as the corrupt Favor is more interesting in retrieving the money than his wife.

But in true western fashion, Russell is also a natural tactician and manages to pick off the outlaws when they come calling, impervious to the cries of Audra staked out in the blazing sun as bait. Eventually, against his better judgement, Russell gives in to the entreaties of Jessie and attempts to rescue the stricken women only to be cut down by the gunmen. I certainly didn’t expect that.

So, it’s both action and character-led drama. Paul Newman (The Prize, 1963) is superb (though not favored by an Oscar nod), especially his clipped diction, and oozing contempt with every glance, and the whiplash of his actions which is countered by shrewd judgement of circumstances. But Diane Cilento (Negatives, 1968) is also better than I’ve seen her, playing the foil to Newman, sassy enough to deal with him on a male-female level, but with sufficient depth to challenge his philosophy. Strike one, too, for Martin Balsam (Tora! Tora! Tora!, 1970) in a lower-keyed performance than was his norm. Richard Boone (Rio Conchos, 1964) and the oily Fredric March (Inherit the Wind, 1960) are too obvious as the bad guys. Representing the more calculating side of the female are Barbara Rush (The Bramble Bush, 1960) and movie debutant Margaret Blye.

The solid acting is matched by the direction of Martin Ritt (The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, 1965). Prone to preferring to make picture that make a point, he has his hands full here. But the intelligent screenplay by Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank Jr. (Hud, 1963), adapting the Elmore Leonard novel, make the task easier, offsetting the potentially heavy tone with some salty dialog about sex and married life.

Thought-provoking without skimping on the action.

Stagecoach (1966) ****

It’s probably sacrilege to admit that I quite enjoyed this. Also it’s been so long since I’ve seen the John Ford original that I could remember very little of the specifics and I haven’t seen the remake before so this was just like watching a new movie. Basically, it’s the story of a group of six passengers taking the stagecoach to Cheyenne for different reasons who are joined by an escaped murderer and shepherded along by the driver and a town marshal. There is some excellent action but mostly it’s a relationship picture, how the characters react to one another and their response to crisis.

Good-time girl Dallas (Ann-Margret) is on the run, banker Gatewood (Bob Cummings) is hiding a stash of stolen money, alcoholic doctor Boone (Bing Crosby) is penniless, liquor salesman Peacock (Red Buttons) is a coward, gambler Hatfield (Mike Connors) has Civil War secrets, pregnant Lucy Mallory (Stefanie Powers) is meeting her cavalry husband in Cheyenne. The ornery Buck (Slim Pickens) is the driver and Curley (Van Heflin) is riding shotgun and when he comes upon stranded escaped murderer the Ringo Kid (Alex Cord) promptly arrests him.

The passengers have heard rumors of the Sioux on the warpath. The audience knows it’s not a rumor because the picture starts with the Sioux slaughtering camped cavalry. Soon enough, the passengers know it, too, coming across a patrol dead at a staging post, and of course they are soon battling for their lives when ambushed.

The drama unfolds as the characters confront each other or their own weaknesses. Dallas, who has a high old time as a saloon girl, is way out of her depth in respectable company, feeling out of place even dining with the others, hiding the secret of her affair with the married Gatewood. Ringo coaxes her along, bringing her out of her shell, giving her back self-respect, and of course falling in love. Curley, with his eyes on the $500 reward for bringing Ringo in, has no intention of letting the gunslinger take his revenge in Cheyenne on Luke Plummer (Keenan Wynn) who killed his family. Boone and Peacock are the most fun, the doctor spending most of his time separating the salesman from his cargo of booze.

There are endless permutations with a story like this, the kind of material that was mined in the disaster movies of the 1970s like Airport (1970) and The Towering Inferno (1974), a group of disparate characters forced to battle for survival. The action is only part of the deal. The picture only truly works if the characters are believable. For that, you need a heap of good acting. The audience could certainly rely on old dependables like Bing Crosby (The Road to Hong Kong, 1962) in his big screen swansong, Van Heflin (Shane, 1953), Red Buttons (Oscar-winner for Sayonara, 1957), Robert Cummings (Saboteur, 1942) and cowboy picture veteran Slim Pickens to put on a good show. But the main dramatic load was to be carried by relative newcomers Ann-Margret and Alex Cord.

Ann-Margret has made her name with sassy light-hearted numbers like The Pleasure Seekers (1964) and had only just stepped up to the dramatic plate with Once a Thief (1965). This was Alex Cord’s sophomore outing after Synanon (1965) and he was stepping into some mighty big boots, the odds stacked against him playing the role John Wayne made famous – and which turned John Wayne into a star.

Amazingly, the casting works. Ann-Margret moves from feisty to restrained, meek to the point of being cowed, and for most of the film, far removed from the false gaiety of the saloon, seeks redemption. The trouble-making minx emerges only once, to knock the wind out of Mrs Mallory, but, after taking a tumble down the humility route, gradually steers her way towards a better self, preventing Gatewood from causing chaos, nursing Mallory and inching her way towards true feelings for Ringo. As in the best movies, it’s not for her to open up about her woeful life but for another character, in this case Ringo, to identify her flaws: “What you doin’ about your scars, you got ‘em even if they don’t show…when you goin’ to stand up and stop crawlin’?” When they finally kiss it is one of the most beautiful tender kisses you will ever see and most of that is down to Ann-Margret’s reaction.

I had already taken back all my reservations about Alex Cord’s acting skills that were mostly due to his moustachioed performance in Stiletto (1969) after seeing him in The Scorpio Letters (1967) and this is another completely different portrayal. As much as he can deliver on the action front, it’s in the dramatic scenes that he really scores, gentle, vulnerable, caring. He certainly matches the Duke’s trademark diffidence in terms of romance. There’s a point where the camera just holds on their faces to nine depth of expression and we are not disappointed.

Gordon Douglas (The Detective, 1968) is the director who had the gall to take on the remake, and he delivers a character-sensitive picture shaded with action. Written by Joseph Landon (Von Ryan’s Express, 1965) based on the original by Dudley Nichols and Ernest Haycox.

Pretty damn good effort.

The Jackals (1967) **

A hoot. Definitely a contender for that most sought-after of categories – the cult movie.

When I tell you it’s Vincent Price in a western you’ll see how much fun this could be. Price spent virtually a whole decade locked into horror typecasting, those distinctive tones dealing out doom. But like all typecast actors, no doubt he was desperate to show what he could do when the horror shackles were removed.

Trouble is – he does too much. This a lollapalooza performance, so wild and barmy it will have you in stitches, at the same time as wondering what the hell was going on in his head, and why he thought such barnstorming was required, as if he felt he had to steal a picture of which he was the denoted star.

Though effectively a western with all the tropes of that genre, and a remake to boot of Yellow Sky (1948), this, adding further hilarity and extending the cult status, is set in South Africa, with variable attention paid to accent.

Stretch Hawkins (Robert Gunner) is leader of a gang of outlaws robbing banks in the Transvaal during a gold strike. They escape the pursuing posse by heading into desert territory and eventually, parched, exhausted and suffering from heat stroke, seek refuge in a ghost town, former mining town Yellow Rock abandoned except for two inhabitants, Oupa Decker (Vincent Price) and his grand-daughter Willi (Diana Ivarson).

Naturally, on spotting the lone woman, the outlaws get the wrong ideas. But she soon puts them right. When she’s not holding them at bay with a rifle she’s decking Stretch with a neat right hook. Refusing to offer them any hospitality whatsoever seems particularly mean given the poor chaps are starving and this area is bereft of the animal population- lions, elephants, hogs – that had popped up previously in the way of the random stock inserts you found in any picture set in Africa.

So the fellows spread themselves out along the riverbank which provides the only water in the vicinity and where Willi must come calling, leading to further episodes of predatory sexual behaviour. By now Stretch has taken a liking to Willi, which is eventually reciprocated, and he tends to leap to her defence.

For no apparent reason, the outlaws surmise that the only reason the old man and his daughter are still hanging around this deserted spot is because they have found gold. Instead of doing the obvious and holding the younger woman hostage, Stretch attempts to strike a deal, agreeing to take only half the old man’s £20,000 stake in return for letting them go free.

This doesn’t go down so well with the rest of the gang and the shoot-out, when it occurs, sees Stretch siding with the good guys and turning over such a good leaf that he returns the money he stole to the bank.

Despite Vincent Price threatening to ruin the picture with his mugging there are some nice touches. After Stretch’s romantic overtures are derisively dismissed for him being too smelly, he smartens himself up, coming a-courting (or a rough version of it) in fresh shirt, armpits washed and hair combed. Stretch had a touch of religion in the past when a law-observing farmer. And you can tell what a change is wrought in him when at the end he buys rather than steals a pretty hat for Willi.

It’s true there is a transformation in Vincent Price (The Oblong Box, 1969). But not for the better. The lugubrious delivery is toned down, the iconic full beard reduced to a wisp, he wears a floppy hat, cackles like a madman and every time he looks at the camera it’s with a one-eyed leer. There’s something of the country bumpkin in his interpretation of the part, and that might just be a show put on to fool the outlaws. Whatever it is, it comes across as the barmiest performance this side of the Razzies.

On the other hand Diana Ivarson (Macho Callahan, 1970), in her debut, makes a pretty good stab at the feisty independent western women, channelling her inner Barbara Stanwyck, or in those tight jeans Jane Fonda in Cat Ballou (1965). She’s a sharpshooter, capable of missing “that close on purpose.” Robert Gunner (Planet of the Apes, 1968) is scarcely a decent substitute for Gregory Peck in the original.

Director Robert Webb (The Cape Town Affair, 1967) can do little to rein Price in. Written by Harold Medford (The Cape Town Affair), adapting the original by Lamar Trotti and W.R. Burnett.

But, really, there’s little to save it from being awful except that cult pictures are judged by different criteria and this has all the making of a cult.

Must-see for all the wrong reasons.

Rough Night in Jericho (1967) ****

Woefully under-rated western with three A-list stars at the top of their game in a taut drama with an explosive ending. Not surprising it was overlooked at the time with John Wayne duo El Dorado and The War Wagon, Paul Newman as Hombre and an onslaught of spaghetti westerns garnering more attention at the box office. Though a rewarding watch, be warned this is more of a slow-burn drama than a traditional western and both male leads play against type.

Former lawmen Dolen (George Peppard) and Ben Hickman (John McIntire) have invested in a stagecoach business owned by twice-widowed Molly Lang (Jean Simmons), just about the only business in Jericho in which Alex Flood (Dean Martin) does not have a controlling share. Dolen’s first reaction on surmising Flood’s power is to quit, “stepping in’s a habit I outgrew.” And it’s not a bad approach given that Flood is judge, jury and executioner and apt to leave victims strung up to dissuade dissent.

Dolen and Flood have a great deal in common, moving from ill-paid law enforcement into business, Flood, having cleaned up the town, stayed on to reap the profit. While Dolen avoids confrontation, Molly aims to stir up opposition, invoking ruthless reaction.

What’s unusual about this picture is it’s mostly a duel of minds, Dolen and Flood sounding each other out, neither backing down even while Dolen intends quitting and when he happens to win a bundle on a poker game with Flood you have the notion that was somehow an inducement to help him on his way. It’s a power game of sorts, too, between Dolen and Molly, she determined to give no quarter to the point of drinking him under the table.

But when violence occurs it is absolutely brutal, Flood’s knuckles bloodied raw as he batters a man foolish enough to challenge his rule of law, Dolen taking an almighty whipping from Yarbrough (Slim Pickens), Molly viciously slapped around by Flood for daring to look at Dolen. When Dolen does move into action it is with strategic skill, gradually reducing the odds before the inevitable shoot-out between respectable citizens and gangsters.

A good half-century before the notion took hold, this is a movie as much about entitlement, about those doing the hard work receiving just reward, Flood, having risked his life to tame the town, deciding he should be paid more than a sheriff’s monthly salary. And the western at this point in Hollywood development had precious few female businesswomen in the vein of Molly.

*This bold image only appeared in the Pressbook. Maybe Don Siegel was watching and appropriated it for “Dirty Harry.”*

Both Dean Martin and George Peppard play against type. An unexpected box office big hitter through the light-hearted Matt Helm series, Martin explodes his screen persona as this vicious thug, town in his thrall, contemptuous of his victims, turning politics to his advantage, but still happy to hand out a beating when charm and chicanery fail. This is one superb, and brave, performance.

For Peppard, this picture is the bridge between the brash persona of The Blue Max (1966) and Tobruk (1967) and the thoughtful introspective characters he brought to life in P.J. / New Face in Hell (1968) and Pendulum (1969). Perhaps the most telling difference is a little acting trick. His blue eyes are unseen most of the time, hidden under the shade of his wide-brimmed hat. He is not laid-back in the modern sense but definitely unwilling to plunge into action, movement both confined and defined, a man who knows his limits and, no longer paid to risk his life, unwilling to do so.

Jean Simmons (Divorce American Style, 1967) is in excellent form, neither the feisty nor submissive woman of so many westerns, but clever and determined, perhaps setting the tone for later female figures like Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in the West (1969) and Raquel Welch in 100 Rifles (1969).

And this is aw-shucks Slim Pickens (Major Dundee, 1965) as you’ve never seen him before. John McIntire had spent most of the decade in Wagon Train but he punches above his weight as a mentoring lawman. If you are trying to spot any other unusual figures keep an eye out for legendary Variety columnist Army Archerd who has a walk-on part as a waitperson.

More at home in television, director Arnold Laven took to the big screen on rare occasions, only twice previously during the decade for Geronimo (1965) and The Glory Guys (1965), but here he handles story and character with immense confidence and considerable aplomb. The direction is often bold – major incidents occur off screen so he can concentrate on the reactions of the main characters. There is a fabulous drunk scene, one of the best ever – plus an equally good hangover sequence. The violence is coruscating, all the more so because it is not delivered by gun.

There’s a great screenplay by Sidney Boehm (Shock Treatment, 1964) and Marvin H. Albert (Duel at Diablo, 1966) which swings between confrontation and subliminal menace.

This would have been Peppard’s picture, given he was demonstrating under-used acting skills, but he’s been to the draw by even better performances by Dean Martin as you’ve never seen him before and Jean Simmons.

A cracker.

Wild Rovers (1971) ****

An unlikely candidate for redemption. Savaged by studio MGM, thoroughly trashed by critics, and ignored by audiences. MGM, having just called time on Fred Zinneman’s big-budget Man’s Fate and alarmed by the budgetary excesses on Ryan’s Daughter (1970), wasn’t in the mood for a three-hour elegiac western about nothing much. Reputedly, there was a first version that went out at two hours seventeen minutes, but the trade critics reviewed the version that went out on general release and came in 30 minutes shorter.

Scorn was the most common reaction. It seemed excessively indulgent to allow director Blake Edwards (The Great Race, 1965) anywhere near a western when his forte was gentle or slapstick comedy and the one time he had ventured out of his comfort zone – for musical Darling Lili (1970) – he had turned in a commercial and critical disaster. The first poster for Wild Rovers, the stars cuddled up on a single horse, suggesting home-erotic overtones, was widely derided.

Hollywood was fearful of pictures without a female prominent in the cast. And while William Holden had revived his career with The Wild Bunch (1969), there wasn’t exactly a long queue for his services, not after the disaster that was The Christmas Tree (1969). By the time he had another hit, five years later, it was in a supporting role in Towering Inferno (1974).

There were question marks also over co-star Ryan O’Neal. Despite the commercial success of Love Story (1970), and an Oscar nomination to boot, it seemed insane to opt for what was in some regards a buddy picture sorely lacking in the crackling dialog and hip approach to the nascent genre that made Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) such a success.

This is a very small story on a not-much-bigger canvas. Sure the scenery is splendidly shot, but close-ups are scant, most of the movie filmed in long shot, faces covered by beards and hats pulled down. Unless you were familiar with his distinctive voice, you wouldn’t, for example, recognize Karl Malden. We’re back in the cowboy realism of Will Penny (1968) but where that narrative helped Charlton Heston by transforming him into a stand-up good guy coming to the aid of a widow and subtle romance thrown in, this just about has the dumbest plot ever conceived.

What makes this work is that the characters ring true, no matter how dumb they appear. These are generally people at the end of the line, or at the beginning of one and realizing it’s going nowhere, or with their small patch in danger of being overrun.

The local sheriff holes up in the whorehouse, there’s a range war brewing – sheep farmers invading valuable pastures – a cowboy could be killed in a flash, not from a rampant gunfighter, but from a spooked horse trampling him to death, the upstanding turn out to be corrupt.

Fifty-year-old Ross Bodine (William Holden), no wife or family to berth him, has hooked up with Frank Post (Ryan O’Neal), half his age. They live on a ranch, eating and sleeping in a communal bunkhouse, and when one of their colleagues suddenly accidentally dies, they take to brooding on the unachievable future, one that seems to be drifting fast away from the older man, still a brass ring within potential grasp for the younger.

They decide to rob a bank. But not in the normal fashion of bursting in with guns blazing in the middle of the day. Instead, they do it at night, Frank holding bank manager’s wife Sada (Lynn Carlin) hostage while her husband Joe Billings (James Olsen) fills Bodine’s pockets to the tune of $36,000. They should get away with it. By daybreak they should have put an enormous distance between themselves and any pursuers and once over the state line would be out of the jurisdiction of local sheriff or marshal. Probably, they’d throw a chunk of it away in gambling, women and booze but they still reckon on having enough left to stake themselves to a small ranch, hiring a manager to do the dirty work.

Not wanting to leave their employers out of pocket, Bodine hands the bank manager back £3,000 to return to ranch owner Walter Buckman (Karl Malden). But the money is diverted along the way by Sada. So Buckman attaches sons Paul (Joe Don Baker) and John (Tom Skerritt) to the posse with the instructions not to turn back at the state border. Walter remains behind waiting for the sheepmen to trespass.

Except for the elegiac scenery, the tone appears uneven at the start, and you might think this is going down comedy lines, what with our heroes being drenched with buckets of ordure and generally being knocked around slapstick fashion. But it quickly settles and you realize you’re watching a couple of losers every bit as believable as the pair in Midnight Cowboy (1969). They’ve got nowhere to go and in making the most of what they have liable to make a hash of it. They don’t win saloon brawls, are on the wrong end of a shoot-em-up, squeal like a pig, to coin a phrase, when called upon to be manly and stoical when a bullet needs dug out of a wound, stare into space after making love because they can sense the inevitable. I found myself warming to them much more than I expected.

Frank may be a mean shot and a heck of a gambler but he’s a little boy at heart, picking up a stray puppy while on ransom duty. There’s a fabulous scene – and my guess what attracted Holden to the picture – when Ross talks to his friend about their friendship. Hell, you think, that’s sailing close to the wind, don’t tell me these guys are getting all emotional. Until you realize the only time Ross could ever speak so openly is if his pal is beyond hearing. Because he’s dead.

Beautifully shot, as I mentioned, boldly envisioned with the emphasis on long shot, and in the end more moving than I expected. I’ve no idea what kind of masterpiece lurked in the lost three-hour version, but MGM may have done Edwards a service because this edited version hits the mark.

Written and directed by Edwards. Both Holden and O’Neal, who was generally panned, have never been better. Host of new talent in the wings includes Tom Skerritt (Top Gun, 1986), Joe Don Baker (Walking Tall, 1973), James Olsen (The Andromeda Strain, 1971), Moses Gunn (Shaft, 1971), and Victor French (Little House on the Prairie, 1974-1977). Unexpected appearances from British pair Rachel Roberts (Doctors Wives, 1971) and Charles Gray (The Devil Rides Out, 1968).

Check this one out. Reassessment urgently required.

Will Penny (1968) ****

Tale of two westerns. On the one hand two undoubtedly fine performances contribute to an excellent realistic somewhat downbeat cowboy yarn. On the other hand a bunch of loonies jumping in every now and then as plot devices upset the wonderful tone. There had to be some other way, surely, to ensure itinerant illiterate 50-year-old cowhand Will Penny (Charlton Heston) and educated single mother Catherine (Joan Hackett) spend the winter together, other than him being bushwhacked by mad-eyed Preacher Quint (Donald Pleasance) and left to die.

This kind of sub-plot, you know where it’s going to end, even though, in this case, it goes down a few bizarre routes. Luckily, the main narrative continues to surprise in interesting fashion.

Like its modern equivalent The Misfits (1961), this mostly revolves around simple-minded cowboys who enjoy simple pleasures, drinking and fornicating, at the end of a hard trail ride. Will looks no further ahead than his next job. He’s easily the oldest of the cowboys and we’re introduced to him getting a telling off for trying to steal a few biscuits from the trail cook. He’s constantly razzed by the younger guys, though he’s able to take care of himself. At trail’s end, he hooks up with Blue (Lee Majors) and Dutchy (Anthony Zerbe) who, unexpectedly, find themselves in a shooting match with Quint’s family.

Dutchy comes off worst, a bad gunshot wound accidentally self-inflicted. The next few sequences are terrific. Dutchy, thinking he’s going to die, wants to go out drinking gutrot whisky and telling tall tales of heroism to Catherine who they encounter at a tiny trading post. There’s generally a callous disregard for the wounded. Even so, Blue and Will take the wounded, now drunk, man to the nearest town where the Dr Fraker (William Schallert) doubles as the local barber.

Will finds a job tending an outlying herd but finds the cabin that goes with it inhabited by Catherine and son Horace (Jon Gries). Out on the job, he’s attacked, robbed and left for dead by Quint and sons Rafe (Bruce Dern) and Rufus (Gene Rutherford). He manages to find his way back to the cabin and is tended by Catherine. Horseless and not fit for work, he decides to hole up in the cabin, fixing it up to withstand winter.

They’re wary of each other, but he bonds with the boy, and gradually they warm to each other, despite the two-decade age gap. She’s been let down so often by men, husband, trail escort etc, that she clearly finds something admirable in his dependability.

And we would probably be headed for a heartbreak ending. We’ve already seen how easy it is to be injured in the cowboy game, and how unemployable that renders a man, so the prospects of an ageing cowhand, who knows no other existence, settling down with an idealistic younger woman seem remote.

In any case, there’s a ways to go before that time comes since at Xmas the Quints reappear, beat Will up again and tie him up. You’d expect them to have their way with Catherine but there’s a twist in that Preacher has sized her up as a wife for one of her sons. While they are fighting over her, Will escapes.

Luckily, his old buddies come looking for him and he’s got a sack of sulphur (purpose never explained) so he smokes out the bad guys and they all get shot, leaving Will and Catherine with their heart-breaking moment.

As I said, two quite dfferent movies at odds with each other. Charlton Heston (Number One, 1969) is transformed. His trademark screen persona disappears under this quite different, diffident, awkward, character and there’s an argument to say this is his best-ever performance. The scenes where he tries to cover up his illiteracy, shies away from learning a Xmas tune, and explains his theories on the frequency of bathing are outstanding.

If you only know Joan Hackett from Support Your Local Sheriff (1969) you wouldn’t recognize her here, contained and watchful, rather than somewhat crazy in the James Garner picture.

While this pair gell, Donald Pleasance (Soldier Blue, 1970) et al stand out like a sore thumb as if they’ve decided to try and hijack the picture with some pointless over-acting. An excellent supporting cast includes Lee Majors (The Six Million Dollar Man) in his debut, Ben Johnson (The Undefeated, 1969), Slim Pickens (Rough Night in Jericho, 1967), Clifton James (Cool Hand Luke, 1967), Bruce Dern (They Shoot Horses, Don’t They, 1969) – in full chipmunk-teeth mode – and Anthony Zerbe (Cool Hand Luke).

Tom Gries (100 Rifles, 1969), as writer and director, makes an excellent impression.

The cowboy and homestead sections work incredibly well, what passes for action and plot drag it down. Still, on balance, well worth seeing.

4 for Texas (1963) ****

To my mind the best of the Frank Sinatra-Dean Martin collaborations, outside of the more straightforwardly dramatic Some Came Running (1958), and for the simple reason that here the two stars are rivals rather than buddies. The banter of previous “Rat Pack” outings is given a harder edge and it is shorn of extraneous songs.

I came at this picture with some trepidation, since it did not receive kind reviews, “stinks to high heaven” being a sample. But I thought it worked tremendously well, the ongoing intrigue intercut with occasional outright dramatic moments and a few good laughs.

It’s unfair to term it a comedy western since for a contemporary audience that invariably means a spoof of some kind, rather than a movie that dips into a variety of genres. In some respects it defies pigeonholing. For example, it begins with a dramatic shoot-out, stagecoach passengers Zack Thomson (Frank Sinatra), a crack shot with a rifle, and pistolero Joe Jarrett (Dean Martin) out-shooting an outlaw gang headed by Matson (Charles Bronson). When director Robert Aldrich (Sodom and Gomorrah, 1962) has the cojones to kill off legendary villain Jack Elam in the opening section you know you are in for something different.

After out-foxing Matson, Jarrett attempts to steal the $100,000 the stagecoach has been carrying from its owner Thomas. Jarrett looks to be getting away with it until he realizes he is still in range of Thomas’s rifle. Then Thomas looks to have secured the money until Jarrett produces a pistol from his hat. And that sets the template for the movie, Thomas trying to outsmart Jarrett, the thief always one step ahead, and the pair of them locking horns with corrupt banker Harvey Burden (Victor Buono), in whose employ is Matson.

The movie is full of clever twists, cunning ruses, scams, double-crosses, reversals and sparkling dialog. Whenever Jarrett and Thomas are heading for a showdown, something or someone (such as Matson) gets in the way. While Thomas has the perfect domestic life, fawned over by buxom maids and girlfriend Elya (Anita Ekberg), Jarrett encounters much tougher widow Maxine (Ursula Andress) who greets his attempts to invest in her riverboat casino by shooting at him.

Take away the comedic elements and you would have a plot worthy of Wall Street and ruthless financiers. The story is occasionally complicated without being complex and the characters, as illustrated by their devious intent, are all perfectly believable.

It’s a great mix of action and comedy – with some extra spice added by The Three Stooges in a laugh-out-loud sequence – and it’s a quintessential example of the Sinatra-Martin schtick, one of the great screen partnerships, illuminated by sharp exchanges neither lazily scripted nor delivered. Even the blatant sexism is played for laughs.

Sinatra and Martin, especially, are at the top of their game. Forget all you’ve read about Aldrich and Sinatra not getting on. Sinatra never got on with any director. But an actor and director not getting on does not spell a poor picture. Sinatra brings enough to the table to make it work, especially as he is playing against type, essentially a dodgy businessman who is taken to the cleaners by both Martin and Buono.

The only flaw is that Ursula Andress (Dr No, 1962) does not turn up sooner. She has a great role, mixing seductiveness and maternal instinct with a stiff shot of ruthlessness, not someone to be fooled with at all, qualities that would resonate more in the career-making She (1965). Anita Ekberg (La Dolce Vita, 1960) on the other hand is all bosom and not much else. Charles Bronson (The Magnificent Seven, 1960) demonstrates a surprising grasp of the essentials of comedy for someone so often categorized as the tough guy’s tough guy.

The biggest bonus for the picture overall is the absence of the other clan members – Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop – who appeared in previous Rat Pack endeavors Oceans 11 (1960) and Sergeants 3 (1963). Without having to laboriously fit all these other characters in, this film seems to fly along much better. As I mentioned, the fact that Sinatra and Martin play deadly enemies provides greater dramatic intensity.

Robert Aldrich was a versatile director, by this point having turned out westerns (Vera Cruz, 1954), thrillers (Kiss Me Deadly, 1955), war pictures (The Angry Hills, 1959), Biblical epic Sodom and Gomorrah (1962) and horror picture Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962). But 4 for Texas called for even greater versatility, combining action with quickfire dialog, a bit of slapstick and romance and shepherding the whole thing with some visual flair.

If you are a fan of Oceans 11 and Sergeants 3 you will probably like this. If you are not, it’s worth giving this a go since it takes on such a different dynamic to those two pictures.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) *****

A mighty cast headed by John Wayne (True Grit, 1969), James Stewart (Shenandoah, 1965), Lee Marvin (The Dirty Dozen, 1967) and Vera Miles (Pyscho, 1960) with support from Edmond O’Brien (Seven Days in May, 1964) Woody Strode (The Professionals, 1966), Strother Martin (Cool Hand Luke, 1967) and Lee Van Cleef (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, 1967) do justice to John Ford’s tightly-structured hymn to liberty and equality and reflection on the end of the Wild West. So tight is the picture that despite a love triangle there are no love scenes and no verbal protestations of love.

The thematic depth is astonishing: civilization’s erosion of lawlessness, big business vs. ordinary people and a democracy where “people are the boss.” Throw in a villain with a penchant for whipping and a lack of the standard brawls that often marred the director’s work and you have a western that snaps at the heels of Stagecoach (1939), Fort Apache (1948) and The Searchers (1956).

The story is told in flashback after Senator Ransom Stoddard (James Stewart) and wife Hallie (Vera Miles) turn up unexpectedly in the town of Shinbone for the funeral of a nobody, Tom Donovan (John Wayne), so poor the undertaker has filched his boots and gun belt to pay for the barest of bare coffins. Intrigued by his arrival, newspapermen descend, and Stoddard explains why he has returned.

Now we are in flashback as, arriving on stagecoach, novice lawyer Ransom is attacked, beaten and whipped by outlaw Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin). He is found by horse-trader Donovan (John Wayne) and taken to a local boarding- house-cum-restaurant where Hallie (Vera Miles) tends his wounds. With a young man’s full quotient of principle, Stoddard is astonished to discover that local marshal Link Appleyard (Andy Devine) has ducked out of responsibility for apprehending Valance on the dubious grounds that it is outside his jurisdiction and that Valance has so mean a reputation he has the town scared witless. When Valance turns up, he humiliates Stoddard and only Donovan stands up to him, rescuing an ungrateful Ransom, who detests violence and any threat of it.

Stoddard soon turns principle into action, setting up his shingle in the local newspaper office run by Dutton Peabody (Edmond O’Brien) and on learning that Hallie is illiterate establishing a school for all ages. In the background is politics, but the push for statehood is inhibited by big ranchers who employ Valance to intimidate. Despite his aversion to violence and insistence that due legal process will eliminate the law of the gun, Stoddard practices shooting. When Donovan gives him a lesson and, to point out his unsuitability to confront such a mean character as Valance, covers him in paint, Stoddard floors him with a punch.

That principle I mentioned has something in common with Rio Bravo (1959) – Howard Hawks’ riposte to High Noon (1952) – in that Stoddard, determined to fight his own battles, refuses to ask for help when targeted by Valance. The inevitable showdown is extraordinary, not least because it takes place at night and Ford, a la Rashomon (1951), tells it twice from different points of view.

Precisely because it retains focus throughout with no extraneous scenes, as was occasionally John Ford’s wont, the direction is superb. As in The Searchers, to suggest emotional state-of-mind, the director uses imagery relating to doors. This time the humor is not so broad and limited primarily to one incident. Both main male characters suffer reversals, in the case of Stoddard it is physical but in the instance of Donovan it is emotional. Either way, action is character. In the romantic stakes, they are equals, dancing around their true feelings.

Upfront there is one storyline, the upholding of law and order whether against an individual such as Valance or against the attempts of big business to thwart democracy. But underneath is a subtly told romance. Donovan and Stoddard are allies but in terms of Hallie they are rivals. Neither has an ounce of sense when it comes to women. Neither actually protests their love for Hallie. Although Donovan brings her cactus roses and is, unknown to her, building an extension to his house to accommodate what he hopes is his future bride, his idea of romance is to mutter, in patronizing manner, the old saw of “you look pretty when you’re angry.” He would have been wiser to have taken note of her spunk, because she can more than direct if need be.

Stoddard isn’t much better. Despite her growing feelings towards him being obvious to the audience, he assumes she prefers Donovan. Action drives the love element, the need to save or destroy.

All three principals are superb. This may seem like a typical Wayne performance, a dominant figure, comfortable with a gun and his abilities, but awkward in matters of the heart. But he shows as great depth as in The Searchers and the despair etched on his face at the possibility of losing Hallie eats into his soul. Stewart combines the man-of-the-people he essayed for Frank Capra with some of the toughness he showed in the Anthony Mann series of westerns. Vera Miles tempers genuine anger with tenderness and practicality. Unlike many Ford heroines she is not a trophy wife, but a worker, mostly seen running a kitchen. Lee Marvin cuts a sadistic figure, with an arrogance that sets him above the law, his tongue as sharp as his whip.

As well as Woody Strode, Strother Martin, Edmond O’Brien and Lee Van Cleef, you will spot various members of the John Ford stock company including Andy Devine (Two Rode Together, 1961) as the cowardly gluttonous marshal, John Carradine (Stagecoach), John Qualen (The Searchers) as the restaurant owner and Jeanette Nolan (Two Rode Together) as his wife.

Written by James Warner Bellah (X-15, 1961), Willis Goldbeck (Sergeant Rutledge, 1960) and Dorothy M. Johnson (A Man Called Horse, 1970).

SPOILER ALERT

Despite its five-star status, I am dubious about the famous “print the legend” conclusion and for two reasons. You could subtitle this picture The Good, the Bad and the Politician. In the first place, what Stoddart tells the newspapermen in the flashbacks is in fact a confession. He did not kill Liberty Valance. Donovan did. By this point in his life Stoddart has served two terms as a Senator, three terms as a governor and been the American Ambassador to Britain. And yet his career is based on bare-faced fraud. He took the glory for an action he did not commit. That is a huge scoop in anybody’s book. And I just can’t imagine a newspaperman turning a blind eye to it.

The second element is that Stoddart does not show the slightest sign of remorse. He built his entire career on this violent action, the antithesis of his supposed stance on the process of law. He takes all the plaudits and fails to acknowledge Donovan, except when it’s too late, and Donovan has died a pauper, his rootless life perhaps engendered as a result of losing Hallie. Hallie’s character, too, is besmirched. She chose Stoddart precisely because he was a man of principle who risked his life to tackle – and kill – Donovan. Those two elements are indistinguishable. Had she known Stoddart had failed and was only saved by the action of Donovan it is questionable whether she would have chosen the lawyer.

There are a couple of other quibbles, not so much about the picture itself, but about other quibblers, commonly known as critics. Alfred Hitchcock famously came under fire for the use of back projection, not just in Marnie (1964) but other later films. That spotlight never appeared to be turned on the at-the-time more famous John Ford. The train sequence at the end of the film uses back projection and the ambush at the beginning is so obviously a set.

Don’t let these put you off, however, this is one very fine western indeed.