Reeling Backward: "Ride the High Country" (1962)

"Pardner, do you know what's on the back of a poor man when he dies? The clothes of pride. And they're not a bit warmer to him dead than they were when he was alive. Is that all you want, Steve?"

"All I want is to enter my house justified."

In writing not long ago about cowboy actor Randolph Scott's late-in-life career resurgence, I mentioned that he and Joel McCrea made one final Western together before retiring from the big screen. That's not strictly true, as McCrea did make a handful of other film appearances after 1962's "Ride the High Country," though neither the films or his turns in them were notable.

"Ride," which is also widely regarded as director Sam Peckinpah's first important film, is better described as the coda on McCrea's long, and largely unappreciated, career. It did in fact mark Scott's last time on the big screen.

A low-budget film that barely made a cultural ripple at the time of its release -- it was actually the bottom half of a double bill with the Viking actioner "The Tartars" -- "Ride" has continued to grow in estimation over the years to the point of being heralded by many as a major film the helps mark the close of Hollywood's Golden Age.

Set in the early years of the 20th century, the two actors play aged ex-lawmen yearning to recapture something of their glory days. Meeting by happenstance, they join forces to guard a shipment of gold dust from a mining town back to the city. Though they don't set out with the intention of the proverbial "one last job," it inevitably becomes that.

The amount they're to be entrusted with is initially described as a quarter of a million dollars, later amended to one-tenth that upon the signing of the contract with the bank, and finally just a hair over $11,000 when they actually take possession. This is significant to Steve Judd (McCrea) only as a matter of personal pride, a measure of how much credit is left in the reputation of a famous relic like himself.

The sum is more important for Gil Westrum (Scott), as he intends to steal the gold rather than turn it into the bank. He spends much of the movie trying to enlist Steve to join the scheme, indirectly through little hints and suggestions. But he's prepared to betray his friend if needs be. His hotheaded young sidekick, Heck Longtree (Ron Starr), serves as his backup and insurance.

During one of their conversations on the trail, Gil does succeed in getting Steve to admit that if men like themselves were justly compensated for their work, he figures he would be due $1,000 for every time he's been shot. (Paying out four times, in his case). Instead, Steve has little to show beyond a decent horse, a fancy gun rig and frayed shirt cuffs.

For their trouble, the three men are being paid $40 a day -- half for Steve, $10 each for his two recruits -- which works out to a little more than $1,000 in today's dollars. So the temptation to steal $250,000, or even $11,000, is enormous.

Steve had spent the previous years working in brothels and bars, while Gil sunk even lower, portraying himself as "the Oklahoma kid," a fictional notorious gunman at carnivals and such. Wearing a fake mustache and ostentatious outfit, he bets rubberneckers 10 cents apiece that he can outshoot them at a game of spinning targets. Even then he has to rig the odds, loading his pistol with buckshot cartridges to ensure a hit.

Along the way to Coarse Gold, the squalid little mining town, they pick up a straggler in Elsa (Mariette Hartley), a young girl who lives alone with her fire-and-brimstone father (R. G. Armstrong). She can't stand the lonely life and her father's abuse, so she sneaks off to join the strangers.

She's clearly attracted to Heck, and vice-versa, but when he nearly forces himself upon her -- only being pulled off by the two older men -- Elsa resolves to continue her original plan of marrying Billy Hammond (James Drury), a man she courted who joined the gold rush.

Unfortunately, Billy has four brothers, and it soon becomes apparent that the Hammonds have a rather... socialist view when it comes to marriage and sexual relations. As in, "share and share alike." Billy seems unbothered by this, so long as he gets first dibs on Elsa's favors.

Needless to say, she's not enamored of the notion of becoming the family sex slave. The marriage goes through in a rambunctious, whiskey-soaked ceremony at the Coarse Gold saloon, but Gil, Steve and Heck rescue Elsa from the Hammonds' clutches. An inquest is called, and Gil threatens the town judge (Edgar Buchanan) to testify that he's not legally empowered to perform weddings. They make off with Elsa, leading to a fatal showdown with the Hammond boys.

The Hammonds make quite an impression as villains, combining a level of genuine malevolence with bumpkin-esque comedic relief. That's helped by the presence of Peckinpah favorite Warren Oates as Henry, the dimmest of the bunch. Oates furrows his brows in a vain attempt to understand basic societal conventions like taking baths or not shtupping your sister-in-law. And, for some strange reason, birds are attracted to Henry, constantly flocking about him or even perching on his shoulder.

The other brothers are Elder (John Anderson), whose name spells out his role; barely-past-boyhood Jimmy (John Davis Chandler); and stoic Sylvus, played by quintessential "that guy" actor L. Q. Jones.

Interesting aside on Jones: his given name was Justus E. McQueen, but in his first movie, "Battle Cry," he was cast as a character named L. Q. Jones, and he liked the moniker so much he used it the rest of his career, which included a lot of Peckinpah films. Another one for the May Wynn files.

I enjoyed "Ride the High Country," though it's hard to argue it up further than being a well-done B-movie Western oater. The central dynamic is Scott and McCrea as hard men who've absorbed a lifetime of being downtrodden and disregarded. Regret is at the core of every scene in the movie, such as when Gil inquires after Steve's one-time, long-ago chance at love and family.

They both still look the part of genuine cowboys, though McCrea sports a bit of a paunch, and his grey hairs are carefully combed over the thin spots. He carries himself with a sense of both shame and pride, mournful for past misdeeds -- including a stint on the wrong side of the law -- while retaining his certainty that it's not usually hard to tell right from wrong.

Scott's character is a little underdeveloped by comparison, failing to struggle much with any kind of moral quandary about stealing the gold. It's only after Steve catches them in the act that Gil seems to have a moment of self-reflection and doubt.

As with most of Peckinpah's work, the women don't fare so well. Elsa comes across as a naive temptress, repeatedly presenting herself to men for their attention and then becoming defensive when they respond too enthusiastically. Given today's watershed moment of awareness about sexual harassment and abuse, her repeated rape peril is titanically disturbing.

Although N. B. Stone Jr., is credited with the screenplay, according to most lore Peckinpah himself and William S. Roberts actually wrote it.

Though I think it's a trifle overrated, "Ride the High Country" is still a worthy conveyance for two Western stars to ride off into their well-deserved sunset.

Reeling Backward: "7 Men from Now" (1956)

John Wayne wanted to star in "7 Men from Now," purchasing the script from rookie screenwriter Burt Kennedy, but was already committed to another role -- "The Searchers." He suggested his friend Randolph Scott for the part, staying on himself as producer. Bud Boetticher was brought in, a director known for his bleak, spare style that seemed to fit the tale of revenge and redemption.

Thus began a collaboration of seven Westerns over four years for Boetticher and Scott, with Kennedy joining them for four of them as script man. Scott, who was already in his late 50s at the time, found a whole new stretch of leading roles in what has come to be known as the Ranown Cycle.

After making one more Western, "Ride the High Country," in 1962 with fellow cowboy actor Joel McCrea for an upstart young director named Sam Peckinpah, Scott promptly retired from acting, having said all he felt he needed to on the big screen. (McCrea followed suit).

"7 Men" gives new meaning to the concept of taut storytelling. It's 77 minutes of pure Old West mythos: outlaws, stolen gold, bandits, Indians, pioneers, cavalry, lawmen, old coot prospectors, the code of manhood, six-gun duels, noble womenfolk and the repaying of old debts.

It's a lonesome, whistling ode to the Western genre without a single extraneous note.

Scott is the apotheosis of the Western star: tall, rangy, weathered face with sharp eyes, slow to anger and reluctant to speak one more syllable than absolutely necessary. When he does talk, he's invariably ordering other people around.

He plays Ben Stride, former sheriff of Silver Springs, now an outlaw himself chasing the seven men who held up the Wells Fargo bank, inadvertently killing his wife in the process. Stride wasn't actually involved in the shootout; he'd lost the vote for reelection six months earlier and declined an offer to stay on as deputy. His wife took the job to support them, and his pride cost her life.

Of course, all this isn't revealed until very late in the game. And Stride doesn't say most of it: He's a man who is talked about, not one who talks about himself.

The opening sequence is typical of the entire film: during a terrible rainstorm, Stride saunters into a cave where two men are taking shelter. He was jumped by Indians 10 miles back and his horse killed, he grunts in between sips of coffee. After establishing the pair were involved in the robbery, two shots ring out in the night, startling the men's horses.

Now riding with the other horse in tow, Stride encounters John Greer (Walter Reed) and his wife, Annie (Gail Russell), a couple of pioneers striking out for Californee. After helping them get their wagon unstuck, Stride accompanies them as unofficial protector. He's clearly attracted to Annie, who reminds him of his wife.

John is depicted as "short on spine," to use another character's words, a salesman by trade ill-suited to life on the open range. Annie adores him nonetheless, but also is drawn toward the masculine magnetism of Stride. The screenplay provides just enough to make us understand they care for each other, without getting into any kind of overt betrayal of marital vows.

A single, abrupt embrace is all they share.

Russell had a bad problem with alcohol after an early rush of stardom in the 1940s, including "Angel and the Badman" with Wayne. "7 Men from Now" was her first film in five years, and the crew reportedly took pains to keep her away from drink during production. The following year she'd plow her car into an iconic L.A. coffee shop, and only had a handful of other roles before drinking herself to death at 36.

Her character is described as "25 or 26," and Russell herself was only 31 when the film was shot. Between her baggy eyes and heavily lined brow, which Boetticher 's camera labors to conceal, you'd think she was Scott's contemporary.

The other notable character is Bill Masters, an outlaw who has a past with Stride. Wearing a bright green scarf around his neck and another red one twisted upon his sleeve, he's played by Lee Marvin in one of his more memorable supporting roles as he established himself as an actor.

Masters wasn't involved in the robbery but knows who was, and tags along with Stride and the Greers in hopes of securing the $20,000 in gold for himself. He and Stride enter a sort of undeclared detente, setting aside their past roles as the criminal and the sheriff who closed a jail door on him. Also coming along is Masters' henchman, Clete (Don "Red" Berry).

Much of the middle section of the movie plays out as a tense love quadrangle, with Masters openly desiring Annie for himself, while also being the only one to acknowledge the attraction between her and Stride. He attempts to undermine John, describing him to Clete as "half a man." Though Greer's got a secret of his own, and eventually displays his mettle (if not the greatest of brainpower).

There's one terrific scene, which takes place in another downpour, as the three men and Annie take shelter inside the wagon. Masters taunts Greer right up to the point of insulting him outright, as well as showcasing his lascivious feelings for Annie. Finally having enough, Stride runs him and Clete off, then makes his bunk in the dry spot underneath the wagon while Greer stands watch.

Separated by just the floor of the wagon, Stride and Annie share a tender exchange of aching yearning neither one of them is able to fully articulate.

Of course, this being a Western it has to end with a shootout. Finally arriving in Flora Vista, we meet Payte Bodeen (John Larch), the leader of the seven robbers. He's an oddly contemplative villain for a Western, always scratching his chin and glancing sideways. Bodeen is the sort who's so busy trying to think three chess moves ahead, he winds up wasting all his pawns.

Suffice it to say that Stride, the remaining five outlaws and Masters' twosome are destined to collide in the deep mountain valley outside of town. Hobbled early on by a bullet in the leg, Stride uses his long rifle as a crutch, employing his wiles to get the drop on his enemies.

"7 Men from Now" isn't a particularly well-remembered film, and I can understand why. It's so distilled down to its purest essence that it doesn't feel like a complete cinematic meal. It's like a dinner consisting entirely of charbroiled steak without any seasoning or fixin's. You have to really enjoy that kind of meat to appreciate the meal.

Reeling Backward: "My Favorite Wife" (1940)

I admit I did not much care for "My Favorite Wife," and it may not even be the movie's fault.

I read the description of the plot -- a woman is shipwrecked on an island for seven years and returns home to find her husband remarried -- and thought this 1940 screwball comedy starring Irene Dunne and Cary Grant would be more of a dramatic film along the lines of "Cast Away" with Tom Hanks. How neat to see the gender roles reversed, I thought, with the woman persevering to survive and the man having emotionally moved on.

Alas, it's more of a slamming-door farce than anything even remotely serious. Grant and Dunne are a likable pair, making cooing eyes and sniping at each other lovingly. But it's one of those movies whose entire plot rests on the conceit of people not being able to tell the unpleasant truth. One uncomfortable moment and the entire situation is resolved, but no, our protagonists must continue the charade on and on -- otherwise there wouldn't be a movie.

Nowadays we would call this the purview of a low-rent TV sitcom. Watching it play out 70 years earlier with top-flight stars doesn't make it any more palatable.

The film was actually based on a tragic poem by Lord Tennyson, "Enoch Arden," from which Grant's character takes his name. It's directed by Garson Kanin from a screenplay by Leo McCarey, which actually got an Oscar nomination, if you can believe it. "Wife" also got Academy nods for musical score and art direction.

The story opens with Nick Arden (Grant), who's an attorney, appearing in court to have his wife Ellen (Dunne) declared legally dead after being lost at sea seven years earlier. Moments after the cantankerous old judge (Granville Bates) rules her dead, Nick has him preside over his marriage to Bianca, an uncouth woman played by Gail Patrick, who actually bears a striking resemblance to Dunne.

The biggest hole in the story is why Nick wants to marry Bianca. She has no real affinity with his two children, Nick's mother doesn't care for her, and even he later admits he never really loved her. It's never made clear why he's in such a hurry to get hitched, and the movie suffers for it.

Hours after Nick is remarried, Ellen is dropped off at their home by a truck driver. Dressed in sailor's garb, we're expected to believe that she was picked up off the island by a Portuguese merchant ship, and somehow she made her way from the Pacific Rim to Los Angeles without ever thinking of writing a letter, sending a telegram or making a phone call.

Long story short, Ellen trails Nick and Bianca to their honeymoon and presents herself to Nick just in time to foil the consummation of his nuptials. They resolve to tell Bianca that his first wife is alive and well ... eventually.

As I say, events keep transpiring to prevent Nick from blurbling out those words. At one point Bianca even hires a psychologist to diagnose why Nick seems so uninterested in his new bride, and there's a goofy scene where the doc comes across Nick posing with some of Ellen's clothes. The subtext, of course, being that he's homosexual.

To add to the mix, it turns out Ellen was not alone on the island all those years, but had a fellow castaway, Stephen Burkett. Although they remained chaste, Nick is understandably suspicious -- especially when he tracks Burkett down and discovers him to be a tall, handsome athlete played by Randolph Scott. (After observing him do an acrobatic leap into a country club swimming pool, and woman asks Nick if the diver is Johnny Weismuller, best known for playing Tarzan.)

The rest of the movie is a blase mix of suspicion, one-upmanship between Nick and Burkett and pretend feuding between Nick and Ellen, with their eventual reconciliation never in doubt.

My biggest regret about seeing "My Favorite Wife" is that we never see Ellen (and Burkett) on the island. She just shows up rescued, and without even the benefit of a suntan. Maybe I'd have liked it more if the film wasn't so different from my expectations ... but I expect not. It's a mid-century comedy star vehicle, and not a very good one.

1.5 stars out of four