KEOMA. 1976. Also released as Django Rides Again and The Violent Breed. Franco Nero, Woody Strode, Olga Karlatos, Donald O’Brien, William Berger, Gabriella Giacobbe. Directed by Enzo G. Castallari.

   An arty and allegorical Spaghetti Western with half a brain and good direction and cinematography, Keoma turns out to ultimately be more entertaining than annoying, and better acted than it has any right to be with an existentialist message at the end right out of Sartre.

   Keoma: “He won’t die, he’s free. And a free man can never die.”

   Okay, if he says so, but for all that, this proves to be a really good western of its type, with first class performances by Franco Nero and Woody Strode, and one stunningly beautiful pregnant woman (Olga Karlatos) named Lisa who bears the burden of most of the allegory about life, death, birth, existence, sacrifice, suffering, freedom, and hope (well, she is very pregnant).

   Admittedly that’s a lot for a western– even an Italian-made western shot in Spain — to bear, but this one manages better than most. It makes for some pretentious fun. It’s no where near as good as High Plains Drifter, but it’s nowhere near as bad as Pale Rider, as pretentious westerns go.

   Nero is the gray eyed long-haired (how those braids survive holding the mess back got a bit distracting I have to grant) half-breed Keoma, who returns home after the Civil War.

   â€œWhich side were you on?”

   â€œIt just happened I was on the winning side.”

   There he finds a spooky old Indian witch (Gabriella Giacobbe) who wanders in and out of the film like a silent Greek chorus as Keoma’s conscience and a sort of early warning signal of impending trouble. She warns him he should not have returned, but like any western hero in any western ever made anywhere, common sense isn’t his long suit, so he rides right into a group of ex-Confederate cackling coyote-mean escapees from Deliverance (are there any other kind?), taking prisoners with the plague to the mines to isolation and death.

   Among them is one pregnant woman, Lisa, the stunningly beautiful Karlatos, with eyes every bit as spooky as the wolf eyed Nero. Pregnant, with straggly hair, and in extremely unflattering clothes, she is still one of the most beautiful women you will ever see in any film.

   Typically he makes enemies fast, kills one of the ex-Rebs, and takes the woman to town, where no one wants her, and he promptly has to kill again and further annoy an ex-Confederate rancher and power mad criminal named Caldwell (Donald O’Brien, the film’s weakest link) who caused the plague with poisoned wells, and now holds the town hostage refusing to allow anyone to bring in medicine or help. No one ever explains just how this helps him since he has already grabbed all the land. I guess he’s just mean.

   In addition Keoma finds his childhood friend and mentor George (Woody Strode) a broken old drunk waiting to die in the streets.

   Keoma: “But you’re free now.”

   George: “I found out what freedom means.”

   Like heavy, man (well, it was the seventies).

   Keoma it turns out was a half-breed child rescued by a fast gun, William Shannon (William Berger), with three sons of his own. Of course they are no damn good — they tortured and beat Keoma — and as ex-Confederates themselves, they ride with Caldwell and their once proud and deadly father is old, afraid to die, and fears having to kill his own sons. But he’s glad to have Keoma back.

   Shannon: “We stopped slaughtering and butchering the Indians long enough to free the black man and now we are back to finish with the Indians.”

   That comes a bit out of left field, since other than the knowledge that Keoma’s village was slaughtered by white men and Keoma the only survivor, and all the bad guys, brothers included, go on about him being half-Indian, Indians have almost nothing to do with the plot except as shorthand for oppressed and exploited people, and that old Indian woman (great face) who keeps wandering in and out at key points often back lit by lightning and sunlight.

   This is a beautifully shot film. Visually it is great to look at and the print I saw was off an original 35mm letterboxed master in one of those collections of twelve films, this one including One Eyed Jacks, another pretentious western, but not as good as this one despite the cast and stunning cinematography.

   Keoma is about as much Tarzan or Conan here as a western hero, a sort of force of nature, the ultimate existentialist hero who worships only one thing, freedom at any price — no matter who he gets killed in winning it for them.

   It’s a very physical role for Nero, mindful of the kind of action film Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas often made full of running, leaping, fighting, and defying gravity, and in the stunts that are obviously Nero, he looks and performs the physical side more than adequately. Of course he was an old hand at this and even makes a sly cameo in Quentin Tarantino’s paean to the form, Django Unleashed (for anyone who didn’t get the joke Nero — among others — this was also released as Django Rides).

   You have to give the director and multiple screenwriters credit too, because this could easily have devolved into maudlin flashbacks of Keoma’s troubled childhood, but instead they chose a form of virtual Latin American Magic Realism where the characters in the here and now are physically in the flashback scenes with their younger selves. Once you get past the initial shock it is very effective and in some ways presages the famous ending of Robert Benton’s Places in the Heart.

   You can guess how the plot works out: there’s the good doctor who regains his nerve; George regains his manhood; Shannon stands by his good adopted son, Keoma; Shannon and George take on the entire Caldwell army in a well shot orgy of gunfighting and violence; and Keoma ends up crucified in the rain on a wagon wheel in the middle of town only to be rescued by Lisa, the dying pregnant woman.

   The final shootout in an old abandoned fort where the film opened, with Keoma battling his three adopted brothers is well staged with the screams of the woman in labor and the cries of her newborn muffling the gun fire (I warned you it was arty) and the old witch looking on.

   But don’t shoot me, it isn’t my fault that Keoma, having done everything but backflips to see the child is born, then deserts him with the old Indian woman with than nonsense about a free man can’t die. See how much milk and how many diapers existentialist philosophy will buy you; carrying existentialism a shade too far as far as I’m concerned.

   The major problem for me was the damn musical soundtrack, really lame senseless ballads I could barely understand that sounded like the mewling of the cattle from Red River done to music or the male part like a coyote with a sore throat trying to spit phlegm up (and that is being kind — “Do not forsake me oh my darlin'” it’s not), the woman singing alone had a vibrato on high notes that must be how Madame Castafiore sounds to Captain Haddock in Tintin. You will be amazed how many vowels she manages to squeeze into the name Keoma. She sounds like the love child of Joan Baez and Slim Whitman.

   That said, the dubbing was first class with Nero and Strode at least doing their own voices.

   But messy as it is at times, I more than recommend this one. It mostly succeeds at what it is obviously trying to do, there is some strong and effective imagery, plus stunts, good use of lighting and staging, and more often than not, it rises to what it seems to want to be. Granted the main villain is a bit lame, but he’s only an afterthought to the conflict between the brothers and Keoma.

   And if any of you have seen it and remember, maybe you can clear up whether Keoma was just rescued by Shannon, or Shannon’s son by his Indian mother. At one point that seems to be the implication, and then later I wasn’t so sure. I guess that happens when a small army writes the screenplay. They never clear up if the people at the mine dying of plague are saved either. Guess it wasn’t worth the bother.

   I enjoyed this one much more than I expected. If there is another half this good on the set then I won’t feel I wasted $5. This is one of the better thought of and appreciated later Spaghetti westerns, and it isn’t hard to see why.

   Still, I can’t help but wonder if Tonto — Keoma — would have fared better here with the help of the Lone Ranger.

   Just asking.

WILL PENNY. Paramount Pictures, 1968. Charlton Heston, Joan Hackett, Donald Pleasence, Lee Majors, Bruce Dern, Ben Johnson, Slim Pickens, Anthony Zerbe, Jon Gries. Screenwriter-director: Tom Gries.

   Will Penny is a Western drama starring Charlton Heston as an aging cowhand caught between the only life he knows, that of a rugged, itinerant cowboy, and the love of a beautiful woman who wants to settle down with him. While the movie is neither a work of cinematic excellence, nor one of the best Westerns ever made, it is perhaps one of Heston’s finest, and least “epic,” big screen performances. Even if you’re not particularly a Heston fan, it’s worth watching.

   The film may not resemble a traditional Western in terms of narrative or structure but contra Roger Ebert, Will Penny is very much part of the Western genre. That said, the film is best understood as a character study set in the Old West and as a filmmaker’s attempt to portray the life and psychology of a cowhand as realistically as possible.

   While there are several notable flaws that do detract from the overall project, the film does succeed in providing the viewer with a glimpse of a West that was far less glamorous, and far more lonesome, than in the vast majority of shoot-them-up B-Westerns.

   The plot really isn’t all that complicated. (If you haven’t seen the film yet, you might want to skip down a few paragraphs to avoid spoilers.) In fact, the plot’s simplicity is what makes what otherwise has the feel of made-for-television movie work as a film.

   Will Penny (Heston) is an aging, illiterate cowhand working jobs when and where he can find them. After finishing one job, Will Penny and his two friends, Blue (Lee Majors in a rather undistinguished early film role) and Dutchie (a vastly under-utilized Anthony Zerbe) look for future work.

   Along the way, they get into a confrontation with Preacher Quint, a bearded, wild-eyed, Bible quoting, madman (a somewhat miscast, overacting Donald Pleasence) and his family of misfits, over an elk. Penny shoots and kills one of Quinn’s sons with a rifle. The grieving and crazed father retreats, announcing to the world that he’ll seek to avenge his son’s killing.

   During the gun battle, Dutchie ends up shooting himself in the chest. The three men then travel in search of a doctor, encountering Catherine Allen (a lovely, classy Joan Hackett) and her son, Horace, (portrayed by Jon Gries, son of writer/director, Tom Gries) in a tavern along the way.

   After a series of not particularly compelling events, Quint and his remaining sons catch up with Will Penny, gravely injuring him. Allen nurses Will Penny back to health and, as might be expected, she begins to fall in love with him.

   Will Penny, for his part, is both attracted to and confused by, the domestic lifestyle she and Horace take for granted. He develops a particular fondness for the young Horace, becoming a father figure to him.

   Preacher Quint eventually returns – yet again – and wreaks havoc on the Allen household. In a final showdown, Will Penny, along with Blue and Dutchie who appear oddly out of nowhere at the most opportune time imaginable, take on the Quint family, eventually killing the lunatic patriarch.

   Allen’s feelings toward Will Penny are now perfectly clear. Despite the fact that she has a husband out in Oregon, she wants him to marry her. Her plan is for them to settle down together as homesteaders. Will Penny is mighty tempted by the idea, but he just doesn’t see it as a viable option. After all, he’s nearly 50, an old man for that time and place. The only life he’s ever known is that of an itinerant cowhand; he simply couldn’t imagine giving it all up for a life of domesticity.

   There is no happily ever after. Despite Allen’s entreaties, Will Penny decides to ride off with Blue and Dutchie, leaving Allen and Horace behind him.

   When discussing Will Penny, “authenticity,” seems to be the key word. Will Penny is a character study of a lonesome, somewhat taciturn cowhand. He is not only illiterate, but he’s embarrassed by it. He prefers not to fight with his hands, as those are, in his estimation, hands are designed for working, not fighting. Instead, he makes use of a skillet in one fight and of his legs in others. The whiskey he drinks burns his throat. Most of all, Will Penny is extraordinarily, painfully, awkward around women.

   But is the film, as writer/director Tom Gries intended, a realistic portrayal of a cowboy? I guess that depends. The Old West was a large place geographically and hosted a wide array of characters, good and bad, normal and strange, ebullient and bashful. Will Penny does, however, succeed in avoiding the obviously embellished features that mar other portrayals of cowboys, turning them into larger than life figures.

   Heston’s Will Penny isn’t perfectly clean, well-spoken or comfortable in society. He also doesn’t like killing men much, either. He’s no romantic hero. He’s just a regular guy who comes to realize that the true villain in his life wasn’t Preacher Quint, but rather time and circumstance.

   Will Penny may not be a great Western, but it’s a good one, a film that you’ll probably want to think about for a while before you form your own opinion on whether it works or not.

BORDER DEVILS. Supreme Pictures / Weiss Brothers Artclass Pictures, 1932. Harry Carey Sr., Kathleen Collins, George (later “Gabby”) Hayes, Olive Carey and Tetsu Komai. Script and continuity by Harry P. Crist, based on a story by Murray Leinster. Directed by by William Nigh.

   One of the first things you notice about Border Devils is that it’s based on a story by Murray Leinster, who gets a credit just under the title. And it would be interesting to know which one, because as the film unfolds we see some of the signature trademarks of Leinster‘s style all over it.

   The story starts with Harry Carey Sr. and his partner (don’t worry about who played him; he’s only in one scene anyway) following up a lead on a mysterious oriental criminal mastermind of the west, known only as The General. They’re drugged, the partner murdered (see?) and Carey framed for it.

   In due course, Carey becomes first a fugitive, then an investigator under a couple of assumed names, and finally he uncovers a plot to steal the heroine’s ranch. (How do they keep coming up with these new ideas?) He also picks up a more durable partner in the person of (who’da thunkit?) George “Gabby” Hayes.

   Harry and Gabby spend the rest of the film running down The General, riding up the plains, and just generally playing cowboy as they try to sort out just who’s working for the Yellow Peril and who ain’t. In the course of things, the story keeps wavering between some grandiose plot of the General (seen only in shadows at first by his frightened minions) and the more mundane matter of the heroine’s ranch, until our doughty heroes manage to penetrate the sinister cabal and unmask the baddies once and for finally.

   It’s easy to see the elements of Leinster’s style here: the massive conspiracy that figures in his sci-fi, the shifting identity of the hero, and the generally peripatetic nature of the tale as our cowboy commandos shuttle hither and yon like horsing lot attendants.

   Unfortunately, it’s all a rather shoddy affair, one of a series of less-than-inspired films by producer Louis Weiss — who would later be responsible for The White Gorilla. His westerns with Harry Carey, done at a time when the once-great Western star obviously needed cash, are uniformly slow-paced, cheap and cheerless affairs, and this one is right at the bottom of the barrel.

   Word has it that Carey actually had to sue Weiss for his salary, but it doesn’t show in his performance; the aging western star is as leathery-tough as ever, and a pleasure to watch, even in this seamy milieu.

   So like I say, it’s just a shame to see him in this dreadful mess. Director William Nigh seems to have been not so much directing as sleep-walking, and as for the “script and continuity” — well, they’re perfunctory and non-existent, respectively. Characters come on the screen without introduction, say a few words in reference to some aspect of the plot, then get interrupted by some other characters who enter the scene for no apparent reason and everyone talks until the scene shifts to something else that seems to have little if any relation to whatever preceded it.

   I remember thinking as I watched that whoever took credit for “script and continuity” ought to be ashamed of himself, and sure enough, he was: it turns out that the credited “Harry P. Crist” was actually a pseudonym for a sometimes-director named Harry Fraser.

   If you’re not familiar with Fraser, let me just say that he worked in films from the Silent days to the late 1950s without ever once showing the fainted glimmer of interest in whatever he turned his hand to. Those who celebrate the late Ed Wood should bow their heads and positively worship Fraser, who, come to think of it actually worked on the Wood-scripted Bride and the Beast. Which should give you some indication of his talent. For the record, his last official credit as a feature film director was Chained for Life, a film so tasteless I must get around to reviewing it someday.

   But getting back to Border Devils, I guess I should marvel at the talent of Leinster’s vision and Harry Carey’s charismatic presence. If they don’t exactly triumph over their surroundings, at least they shine through enough to be discernible.

SADDLE THE WIND. MGM, 1958. Robert Taylor, Julie London, John Cassavetes, Donald Crisp, Charles McGraw, Royal Dano. Screenplay: Rod Serling, based on a story by Thomas Thompson. Music by Elmer Bernstein. Directors: Robert Parrish & John Sturges, the latter uncredited, according to IMDb.

   Saddle The Wind is a Western set on the frontier in the post-Civil War era. Veteran actor Robert Taylor and a youthful John Cassevetes, the latter in one of his earliest film roles, portray brothers Steve and Tony Sinclair, respectively. The two men are irreparably divided over the necessity and propriety of violence. Joining them on their journey into fatal conflict is singer/actress Julie London who portrays Tony Sinclair’s mysterious love interest, Joan Blake.

   The film is as much a Greek tragedy set in the American West as it is a traditional Western. The themes of personal fate, hubris, and historical inevitability all feature strongly in both the film’s text and subtext.

   The philosophical question of whether a man is born bad or goes bad because of his environment — the age-old question of nature versus nurture — is both explicitly and implicitly touched upon throughout the film. Saddle The Wind also explores the effects and ramifications of violence on men and women, and societies more generally.

   The film begins with a depiction of frontier aggression and violence. Larry Venables (a mean-looking Charles McGraw) enters a tavern, demands service, and aggressively queries for the whereabouts of Confederate veteran Steve Sinclair (Taylor). But it’s not Steve with whom Venables ends up doing battle. Rather, it is younger brother Tony, whom Steve always believed had something wrong with him when it came to violence, who engages in a standoff with Venables.

   Tony shoots and kills Venable, setting off a chain of events that spin out of his control. The sick thrill of murdering a man, even if it were justified, goes to Tony’s head. With liquor, his wildness only increases. Soon Tony and a friend are out making trouble for what they perceive to be gathering of local squatters. Leading the group is Clay Ellison (Royal Dano), a Union veteran from Pennsylvania who has a deed to the land.

   It’s not long until Tony Sinclair is angry at — and violent toward — almost anyone who crosses his path, including the local patriarch and landowner, Dennis Dineen (Donald Crisp). This turns out to be a big mistake, and it ends up with older brother Steve having to put an end to his younger brother’s reign of terror. The film culminates in a final, violent showdown between the Brothers Sinclair. The camera work, particularly the angles at which the actors are captured on film, and the music leading up to this crucial event are memorable.

   Without giving away the ending, let’s just say that you may slightly caught off guard. (I watched it a second time just to make sure I understood it correctly.) I wasn’t expecting the film’s main conflict to resolve itself in the manner that it did, but if one does consider it to be a Greek tragedy set in the West, rather than a Western, it all makes perfect sense.

   The film’s biggest flaw, ironically, may have been in casting Julie London for the role of Joan Blake. While London is certainly captivating and her singing of the movie’s eponymous title song has its saccharine charm, her character just comes across as somewhat inauthentic.

   It’s hinted that she’s running from a violent past. Nevertheless, would a woman of her looks and her presumed social status really have joined up so quickly with an obvious immature hothead like Tony Sinclair after knowing him for less than a week? It strains credulity.

   In many ways, Joan Blake is extraneous to the overall taut plot; the conflict between the sober, elder brother Steve and the reckless, younger brother Tony would have likely come to a head even without her presence in their midst. By not further developing the sole significant female character in the film, Serling weakened his overall solid script and made London’s contributions to Saddle The Wind less impressive than they could have been.

   Although Saddle The Wind is unquestionably a Western, there is something very noir about the film, with Cassavetes’s character increasingly spiraling into a hellish realm of senseless violence, all of which culminates in his inevitable doom. None of the characters are remotely happy, at least not for very long.

   The closest we see to true happiness is at the beginning of the film, when Tony Sinclair returns home and is reunited with his brother. From then on, no one really is remotely cheerful, at least not in any normal sense.

   All the characters seem more resigned to their places in the world than particularly happy with them. Violence, death, loneliness, and struggle rule the land. It’s a bleak land, and one does one’s best to make the most of a less than optimal situation. Perhaps this was Rod Serling’s view of the American West?

   In conclusion, Saddle The Wind is a unique film, somewhat distinct from the typical Western narratives of the era. In many ways, it’s a film about a loser rather than one about a hero. But it’s very much worth watching. With solid acting, great scenery, and a beautiful soundtrack composed by Elmer Bernstein, it’s a film that you won’t soon forget, particularly if you really consider what’s really going on with all the characters under their tough Western exteriors.

BRONCHO BILLY AND THE BABY. Essanay, 1915. G. M. Anderson (Broncho Billy), Berenice Sawyer, Evelyn Selby, Lee Willard. Based on a story by Peter B Kyne. Director: G. M. Anderson. Shown at Cinefest 26, Syracuse NY, March 2006.

   It’s a strong sign of the popularity of the Broncho Billy series (and possibly, also, a symptom of the difficulty in getting new scripts fast enough to accommodate the rapid shooting schedules of the series) that this remake of Broncho Billy and the Sheriff’s Kid was released only two years after the original film.

   Billy, an outlaw on the run, rescues a child and returns her to her mother. When the husband returns and discovers that the saviour of his child is a wanted outlaw, he’s faced with a moral crisis.

   It’s difficult to explain the appeal of these simplistic little two-reelers, but they undoubtedly reside in guilelessness and sympathetic portrayal of Billy by Anderson, and in the emotional tug of the simply defined story lines.

   The screening of an interview with Anderson by William Everson in 1957 showed Anderson to have a phenomenal recall of details of the early days of the film industry, if somewhat less appreciation of current films.

   This was followed by Shootin’ Mad (1918), an abridged version of one of Anderson’s last Broncho Billy films, originally released as a five-reeler. The budget was larger so that the sets didn’t shudder when a door was slammed, but Billy was his dependable self, still, as the program notes put it, “a surefooted cavalier who turns into a bumbling clod when he meets a purty girl.”

Editorial Comment:   The popularity of the Broncho Billy series (1910-1918) should not be underestimated. The list of films in the series on IMDb includes 144 of them, and there are quite likely many others that are missed.

LAST TRAIN FROM GUN HILL. Paramount PIctures, 1959. Kirk Douglas, Anthony Quinn, Carolyn Jones, Earl Holliman, Brad Dexter, Brian Hutton, Ziva Rodann. Screenplay by James Poe, based on a story by Les Crutchfield. Director: John Sturges.

   Last Train from Gun Hill is a 1959 Western directed by John Sturges (Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, The Magnificent Seven) with a memorable score by Dimitri Tiomkin (High Noon). It features Kirk Douglas as a U.S. Marshal seeking justice for his murdered Cherokee wife (portrayed by the Israeli actress Ziva Rodann) and Anthony Quinn as a corrupt cattleman whose screw-up of a son is responsible for the horrific crime.

   The film, which co-stars Carolyn Jones (The Addams Family) and Earl Holliman (Hotel de Paree), is fairly standard American Western fare. The themes of frontier justice, domestic violence, the rights of Native Americans, and the relationships between fathers and sons all play prominent roles in James Poe’s solid, but not particularly novel, screenplay.

   The plot of Last Train from Gun Hill isn’t all that difficult to follow. The film begins with a somewhat lengthy chase scene in which two inebriated cowboys, Rick Belden (Holliman) and Lee (Brian G. Hutton) recklessly chase a wagon driven by a Cherokee mother (Rodann) and her son Petey.

   The mother, wanting to protect her son, uses a whip to fend off the attackers, leaving a brutal mark on Rick’s face. But it’s too little, too late. Eventually, the ruffians succeed in driving the two innocents off the road. Although we do not witness the crime directly on screen, it is clear that Rick both rapes and murders the Cherokee mother.

   Fortunately, Petey escapes and heads into town where his father, Matt Morgan, (Douglas) is a U.S. Marshal. Morgan rides to the crime scene and finds a horse with a saddle engraved with the initials C.B. He realizes it belongs to his old friend, Craig Belden (Quinn), and Rick’s father who is now a cattle baron in the town of Gun Hill.

   Prior to setting out for Gun Hill, Morgan has a brief exchange with his murdered wife’s Native American father, who urges him to seek vengeance and kill the culprit slowly, the “Indian way.” As a lawman, however, Morgan appears more concerned with justice than with revenge.

   Making his way to Gun Hill by train, Morgan meets Linda (Jones), Craig Belden’s estranged girlfriend on the trip. Unfortunately, what could have been a more exciting film devolves into a very slow-moving story in which Morgan and his old friend Craig Belden argue, debate, and fight each other over whether or not Morgan is going to bring the son, Rick Belden, to justice.

   Problem is: Belden has the whole town of Gun Hill in his back pocket, so it’s not completely clear at the outset how Morgan is going to pull this off. Still, he’s determined that he’s going to be on the 9 PM train out of Gun Hill — the last train out for the day — with Rick Belden and Lee in federal custody.

   The movie plods along for a good 45 minutes or so, with an especially lengthy sequence in which Morgan holds a whining Rick Belden captive in a hotel room. Finally, there’s a dramatic scene in which Lee burns down the hotel, forcing Morgan out into the town streets.

   The last ten minutes of the film, which features a final, inevitable, showdown between Morgan and Craig Belden, makes up for the fact that not all that much memorable happens for a good part of the film. Indeed, the biggest flaw of Last Train from Gun Hill is in its pacing. There are some scenes that go by far too quickly; others seem to take forever.

   In general, Douglas is solid in his portrayal of a U.S. Marshal. Initially, he isn’t particularly convincing as a grieving husband. That changes when he encounters a man in Gun Hill who thoughtlessly insults his deceased wife’s heritage. Indeed, nothing seems to enrage Morgan more than hearing men belittle his wife’s Native American ancestry.

   Quinn, on the other hand, seems just a bit out of place in this film. Still, his acting is perfectly fine and he portrays the character of Craig Belden as a man who is both extremely powerful and extremely lonely, a man trapped by his own success.

   Last Train from Gun Hill is by no means a work of cinematic excellence. That said, it’s not a bad film. Fans of Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn would likely appreciate the two men cast as friends turned rivals. In many ways, it’s a very American film, albeit not an especially cheerful one. It’s a movie about friendship, family, and frontier justice, the type of Western that one might enjoy on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

THE FORTY-NINERS. Allied Artists / formerly Monogram, 1954. “Wild Bill” Elliott, Virginia Grey, Harry Morgan, John Doucette, Lane Bradford. Written by Daniel B. Ullman. Directed by Thomas Carr.

   But first a word about Wild Bill Elliott, born Gordon Nance, who started out his career at Columbia under the name Gordon Elliott as an all-purpose and mostly uncredited supporting player until he landed the lead in the 1938 serial The Great Adventures of Wild Bill Hickok, which led to a series of low-budget westerns at Columbia, billed as Wild Bill Elliott and sometimes playing Hickok in adventures that, as you might expect, had little to do with the actual James Butler Hickok.

   Many of these were a cut above average, and a few, directed by Joseph H. Lewis, even artistic at times, but in ’43 he left Columbia for Republic. There the budgets were bigger and the films generally more fun, but it was still a loss in prestige to go from the smallest of the Major studios to the biggest of the Minors, which was Republic’s place in Hollywood’s caste system.

   Republic even tried to lift Elliott out of the “B” ranks for a time, upping his budgets, offering more “adult” story lines and dropping the “Wild” from his billing, but eventually he returned to “B” status. His last film at Republic, The Showdown, was shot entirely on studio sets with back projection, reflecting Republic’s growing disinterest in the budget prairie film in general.

   At which point Elliott moved to Monogram, which was definitely a step down, but surprisingly his films here got even more interesting — not better made, but with distinctly off-beat characterizations and story lines.

Elliott himself, billed once again as “Wild Bill Elliott” smoked and drank, cussed now and then, and wasn’t above dealing out nastiness when called for. He even played an occasional outlaw, though reformed by film’s end, and in one movie he beats information out of a bad guy while holding him at gunpoint—hardly sporting, that, and unheard of in the better class of B westerns.

   In 1955 even Monogram tired of the low-budget western and moved Elliott into a series of detective stories, but Elliott had ended his sagebrush career with a flourish of sorts, as borne out in The Forty-Niners.

   This starts out with Dragnet-style voice-over narration, and when I say “Dragnet-style” I mean you can practically hear Jack Webb’s flat monotone in Wild Bill Elliott’s voice. Her gives dates and times, tosses in cop-comments like “It was a routine assignment” and even synopsises the outcomes in Court.

   The wonder is that writer Daniel Ullman (who made kind of a specialty out of detective/westerns) still wrought a perfectly fine western out of all this.

   Wild Bill plays a U.S. Marshall cold on the trail of the owlhoots who ambushed a fellow-lawman. His only lead is a gambler (played by Harry Morgan, who also featured in Elliott’s last Republic picture) who can lead him to the baddies as long as he doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing. Morgan plays the kind of good/bad guy later personified by the likes of Arthur Kennedy, and he does it pretty well, grinning and joking as he cheats at cards and blackmails killers who are now comfortably ensconced as respectable citizens.

   His only weakness is a soft heart for the gal he left behind and an aversion to cold-blooded murder when that becomes necessary to eliminate Elliott, whom he’s come to respect and admire. It’s an interesting part in a movie that moves along at a brisk clip, with plenty of action and enough curves in the plot to keep you guessing, even as you realize the pre-ordained outcome dictated by the genre, and reflecting that as Wild Bill took his last ride into the sunset, he did it with a certain amount of style and the quiet dignity that becomes a western hero — even a cut-rate hero ending his days in the B-movies.

BILL GULICK – Bend of the Snake. Houghton Mifflin, hardcover, 1950. Paperback reprints: Bantam #906, 1951; Paperback Library, 1968.

BEND OF THE RIVER. Universal, 1952. James Stewart, Julia Adams, Arthur Kennedy, Rock Hudson, Jay C. Flippen, Chubby Johnson, Stepin Fetchit, Harry Morgan Jack Lambert, Royal Dano, Frances Bavier. Screenplay by Borden Chase. Directed by Anthony Mann.

   Bill Gulick’s first novel, Bend of the Snake, doesn’t seem like anything special to me, but it got snatched up immediately by the movies, and then discarded — of which more later.

    Bend rides out slowly at first, with Scott Burton summoned to help out an old friend in a foundering business deal. Seems his buddy Emerson Cole is trying to break up a local monopoly in the Oregon territory and needs Burton’s help — understandable since Burton is that stock figure of Western Fiction: an honest man who can’t be beaten with guns or fists.

   Gulick never tells us just what the bond is that makes Burton so willing to come to Cole’s assistance, but it quickly becomes apparent that Cole has neither the spine nor the ethics of his good buddy, character traits which lead the story into murder and a fairly well-handled investigation when a bookish youngster turns amateur sleuth.

   For the most part though, this is pretty standard stuff, with Burton breaking the local robber baron by getting a load of goods to market past his hired guns, then beating down further attempts at ambush, arson and general mayhem.

   Gulick creates an effective cast of salt-of-the-earth settlers and a crusty riverboat captain to give the tale a fine, spirited background, but plot-wise this is no different than a hundred others.

   This was filmed, sort of, as Bend of the River, and when it came out Gulick ran an ad complaining that the only things they used from his book were the first three words of the title. Whereupon screenwriter Borden Chase observed wryly that he should have waited to see if the movie was a hit before distancing himself from it.

   In fact, Bend of the River (the second teaming of director Anthony Mann and star Jimmy Stewart) was a big hit, and deservedly so. It is in fact, probably the most enjoyable of Mann’s westerns and the most satisfying of Stewart’s.

   Just to be strictly accurate, I should note that Borden Chase did incorporate a few elements from Gulick’s book besides the first three words of the title: Emerson Cole is still a shifty character (though considerably more ballsy as played by Arthur Kennedy) and there’s still a helpful steamboat captain and something about getting a wagon load of goods past considerable obstacles, but the rest is pure Borden Chase, and it’s a theme he’d return to again: a man of principle (Jimmy Stewart, natch, the character re-named Glyn Mclyntock) allied with a helpful but not entirely trustworthy partner (Arthur Kennedy in a role he’d also return to again) involved in a deadly undertaking that is part thrill-a-minute adventure and part spiritual odyssey as Stewart/Mclyntock seeks to redeem himself from his past.

   Mann seemed particularly attuned to this sort of thing and he evokes it here with speed and energy but without the angst that intensifies his later films: The Naked Spur (’53) and Man of the West (’58) may be more profound, but Bend of the River is more fun, as Stewart and Kennedy brave marauding Indians, crooked speculators, hired guns and mutinous miners (Morgan, Lambert and Dano at their best/worst) on their way to a confrontation that seems all the more satisfying because we know it’s coming.

   I should also add that Universal had Chase write in a part for a rising young newcomer on the lot, Rock Hudson, who can be glimpsed in the Mann/Stewart Winchester ’73 (1950). Chase wrote him in but then apparently had no idea what to do with him as Hudson drops out of the action at a crucial moment and only reappears when it seems safe to do so.

RANGERS OF FORTUNE. Paramount, 1940. Fred MacMurray, Gilbert Roland, Albert Dekker, Patricia Morison, Betty Brewer, Dick Foran, Joseph Schildkraut. Written by Frank Butler. Directed by Sam Wood.

   I had some trouble getting this due to a not-quite-prompt/dependable dealer, but it was worth the effort. You don’t hear the word “Rollicking” much anymore, but there’s no better word to describe this seldom-seen adventure classic, a film right up there with Gunga Din or Princess Bride.

   MacMurray, Roland and Dekker come on as a trio of good-natured desperadoes (we first see them as they’re being marched in front of a Mexican firing squad) at loose ends on the range who find themselves sorting out the problems of a dying newspaperman, his moppet granddaughter, and a town being stylishly terrorized by an aristocratic bad guy.

   Rangers was directed by Sam (Night at the Opera) Wood and written by Frank Butler, who did the Hope/Crosby “Road to” movies so you can figure it will offer some fun, and it is in fact rich in comic moments, some of them unexpected (Dekker playing his part like Curly in the Three Stooges) and some enjoyably predictable, when you see the punch-line coming and smile as you wait for it to smack the screen.

   What you might not expect are the well-mounted action scenes (fights, chases and tricky gun-play galore) and the hard-edged moments when they kill off characters who don’t usually die in movies like this.

   There are also some very well-thought-out minor characters played by actors you never heard, and they surprised me from time to time: Betty Brewer as the not-cloying moppet, Arthur B. Allen (from Our Town) as a drunken milquetoast who chimes in with some erudite sleuthing, and Bernard Nedell (who?) as a gunman nasty enough to seem like a genuine threat to our doughty heroes.

   Patricia Morison is her usual sexy self, Dick Foran comes off well as the chump/straight man, and Joseph Schildkraut turns in one of those cultured-heavy performances that remind one of Count Zaroff or Kasper Gutman at their best — or worst if you prefer.

   The film really belongs to the three male leads though, and they carry it vigorously, helped out by the typical Paramount production gloss and some canny direction from Sam Wood, who follows them around with a sweeping camera that lends pace and forcefulness to everything they do, from hawking newspapers to one of those memorable walks down Main Street to the showdown so beloved of western fans.

   Not an easy film to catch, but you really ought to try.

THE PARSON AND THE OUTLAW. Columbia Pictures, 1957. Anthony Dexter, Sonny Tufts, Marie Windsor, Buddy Rogers, Bob Steel(e). Director: Oliver Drake.

   Yet another fictional distortion of the legend of Billy the Kid, but one in which I have to admit a really neat twist takes place. It seems that what really happened was this: Pat Garrett and Billy got together on a plot that would leave Billy “dead” and buried, free to begin a new life, one without the need to constantly prove himself to every new gunfighter in town.

   This all takes place in the first ten minutes, so I’m not telling you all that I could, but unfortunately, it is the most interesting ten minutes of the movie — as maybe you could tell from just a single glance at the cast.

   Marie Windsor excepted, of course.

   As Billy the Kid, Anthony Dexter has no acting ability, no looks, and is minus 30 on the standard Sonny Tufts charisma scale. (Which means that Sonny Tufts has 30 times the charm and charisma of Anthony Dexter, as displayed in this movie.)

   On the other hand, no movie with Marie Windsor in it is ever a complete waste of time, but a few of them come close, and even fewer of them come closer than this.

   And what other movie can you think of would have the parson, a man of the cloth, begging Billy to put his guns back on, for the sake of the town. (It works out even worse than you might think.)