Reeling Backward: "My Darling Clementine" (1946)

"My Darling Clementine" is almost an art-house version of a Western, long before anyone thought to divide films into mainstream ones and "serious" ones.

Director John Ford lets his camera linger over the expanses of arid ground and the yawning openness of the Arizona sky. It's like a banner of freedom, possibility -- and threat. The Tombstone of 1882 was little more than a stopover for miners, lacking even a church or a school. Ford really makes the audience feel the lawlessness, and the possibility for to introduce some structure with the arrival of Wyatt Earp.

Earp, played by Henry Fonda, was one of the first cinematic good guys to wear black. Tall, lean and stern, he and his three brothers are just driving their cattle through the countryside when their herd is rustled and the 18-year-old brother murdered. Earp, who had just been offered the job of marshal for corralling an drunk Indian and turned it down, returns to take up the badge.

It's clear from the beginning that the Earps are not in it for the long haul. Wyatt already knows the Clantons are responsible for the crime; he just wants to hang around long enough to get his revenge. If it can have a patina of legitimacy through law enforcement, so much the better.

Wyatt spends most of the movie tangling not with the Clantons but with Doc Holliday (Victor Mature), a self-loathing gambler and proprietor of the town's biggest saloon. There's something terrible in his past, which is never revealed, and he seems to delight in gunning down any man who dares challenge him.

The Clementine of the title (Cathy Downs) doesn't show up until nearly halfway through the movie, and is really a tertiary character. I'm not sure if she has more than a couple paragraphs of lines. She used to be Doc's girl before he ran off, and has spent years tracking him down. He abruptly orders her to leave town, though Wyatt intervenes to prevent this, taking a shine to Clementine himself.

Eventually, the conflict that led to the shootout at the O.K. Corral heats up again. This famous piece of history had been depicted on film many times before, and would be again several times after. Ford shoots it not as a cliched quick-draw standoff, but a nasty little business of hit-and-run tactics.

As was usually the case with Ford's Westerns, the supporting cast adds a lot of color and texture to the tale. The great character actor Walter Brennan, who usually played world-weary cynics with a heart of gold, is chilling as Old Man Clanton.

In one amazing scene, Clanton sits mournfully in a chair next to the bed containing the body of his youngest son, who has been gunned down by the Earps (after fatally shooting Chiuauha, Doc's Mexican saloon girl). Morgan Earp (Tim Holt), who chased the fugitive back to his home, tells Old Man Clanton he's sorry it turned out this way, and turns to leave. Without even getting up from his chair, the old man triggers the shotgun in his lap, shooting Morgan in the back. It's a moment of startling violence and contempt for human, and must have been shocking to audiences in 1946.

Ford mainstay Ward Bond plays Morgan Earp, Wyatt's well-fed brother who eats more for breakfast than most people do in a weekend.

History, of course, was very different from the movie. The instigating cause of the gunfight was all about some cowboys who refused to give up their weapons, and the shootout led to a series of reprisals and assassination attempts. The Earps were eventually run out of town, never to return to Tombstone.

But as they said in another great John Ford Western, "When legend becomes fact, print the legend."

4 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Little Big Man"

There are a lot of things to love about 1970's "Little Big Man."

It's one of the first great Revisionist Westerns, when Hollywood began to throw a baleful eye at the portrayal of American Indians in the movies it had made up until then. Long before "Dances With Wolves," it depicted a white man who lives among both Indians and U.S. soldiers, and finds the latter lacking.

The film wears the clown face of a comedy, but has many moments of pathos and even some of disturbing tragedy. It eases seamlessly in and out of these disparate moods without ever seeming discombobulated. There's a gentle world-weariness, with a sense of outrage buried beneath the satire. It's the sort of Western Charlie Chaplin might have made if he'd been born 50 years later.

The makeup turning Dustin Hoffman into a believable 121-year-old man still looks amazing 40 years later -- compare it with the combination of makeup and computer assistance for "Benjamin Button," and I think it holds its own quite well. Artist Dick Smith was not nominated for an Academy Award only because they didn't have that category back then.

Based on the novel by Thomas Berger, the screenplay for "Little Big Man" was written by Calder Willingham (whose first movie script, "The Strange One," was featured in this space not too long ago.) And, of course, it was directed by Arthur Penn, whose heyday as a filmmaker ("Bonnie and Clyde") was rather short but intense -- "Little Big Man" more or less marked the end of it.

Hoffman plays the titular character, a man who saw every face of the Old West. He was an Indian fighter, a member of the Cheyenne tribe, a mule skinner, snake oil salesman, drunk, gunfighter, merchant and hermit. Structurally, there's a lot of similarity to "Forrest Gump," with the main character a naive bumbler who stumbles across all sorts of famous people, and acts as our guide through the history we thought we knew.

The framing story is set in the 1950s, with the extremely aged Jack Crabb relating his story to a skeptical historian. Crabb claims to be the sole surviving white man from the Battle of Little Big Horn.

General George Armstrong Custer, played by Richard Mulligan, is depicted as a cartoonish figure, more inept than evil. Crabb and Custer repeatedly run into each other, with Custer's attitude to the little man growing darker each time. It builds to their final confrontation right before the massacre, with Crabb goading the vainglorious Custer into a foolish charge -- revenge for the general's earlier massacre of Crabb's Cheyenne family.

(I should note that in the film Custer is always referred to as a general, although at the time of his death at age 36 he was actually a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Cavalry. He did receive a temporary battlefield promotion to major general during the Civil War.)

Another historical figure Crabb meets in his journeys is Wild Bill Hickok, played by Western mainstay actor Jeff Corey. Crabb is at this time a wannabe gunfighter calling himself the Soda Pop Kid. After watching Hickok gun down an assassin, and coolly commenting at the bloody mess that he hit both the heart and lungs with one shot, the Soda Pop Kid decides to go into the mercantile business.

Martin Balsam plays Merriweather, a con man who keeps getting whittled down by life -- quite literally, losing an eye here, a hand there. Faye Dunaway plays the young wife of a reverend who briefly adopts the teen Crabb after he's recovered from the Indians who raised him after his settler parents were killed. Her mix of lustiness and protestations of religious fervor make for a memorable turn.

Crabb's longest and most important relationship is with his adopted grandfather, Old Lodge Skins, played by Chief Dan George, who received the lone Oscar nomination for "Little Big Man." It's a terrific role, with wisdom, humor and heart, and George makes the most of it.

"Little Big Man" unfortunately has not maintained much of a reputation over the decades, which is a pity. I consider it one of the minor Western masterpieces.

4 stars

Reeling Backward: "Barbarosa"

"Barbarosa" is one of my all-time favorite Westerns. Most people haven't even heard of it, other than maybe that it was a movie starring Willie Nelson, whose film career didn't exactly set any fires.

It's a strange and moving tale about love and hate, redemption and myth-making. Nelson plays Barbarosa ("Red Beard" in Spanish), an aging bandito who wanders around the Texas-Mexico border robbing and running from a blood debt. He hooks up with a naive farm boy on the run, played by Gary Busey, and they have adventures before Barbarosa's past finally catches up with him.

I guess what I like most about this film is that it looks like a simple adventure movie but has a deep undertow of themes and subtext. It's much like "The Road Warrior," which came out around the same time as this one: There's a not a lot of dialogue, but what is left unsaid speaks volumes.

Over time the boy -- I say "boy" because that's what they refer to Karl Westover as in the film, even though Busey was nearly 40 when he played the role -- learns the details of Barbarosa's dreadful past. He became an outlaw protecting the Zavala clan from his own Texas Rangers, and fell in love with the daughter of the Mexican family patriarch, Don Braulio (Gilbert Roland).

Resentful of the gringo interloping in his family, Don Braulio had two of his clansmen assault Barbarosa on his wedding night, cutting off his ears. In revenge, Barborsa killed the men and shot off Don Braulio's leg. This earned him the name Red Beard, for in Don Braulio's version -- which he repeats incessantly to the children of his hacienda -- his son-in-law's beard turned from blonde to blood-red that night.

That was 30 years ago, and Barbarosa's beard is more gray than anything else these days. One by one Don Braulio has been sending out the best men of his clan to slay Barbarosa, and all have died in the attempt. Although now he has a steely-eyed youngster who may finally be up to the job.

Even though they only share one scene together, Nelson and Roland's emnity is the fire that heats the entire story. Both Barbarosa and Don Braulio see themselves as the aggrieved party, and is unwilling to lay aside his sense of honor -- even if their own family is hurt in the process. It's a nurturing process, except that it's their hatred that they carefully protect and keep nourished.

"All I ever wanted was to be a part of this family!" Barbarosa accuses. "And now you're not a part of this family?!?" Don Braulio indignantly responds.

I should mention that Roland had a long and illustrious acting career that stretched nearly 60 years. He was one of the few Mexican actors who found mainstream success in Hollywood, including a string of movies playing the Cisco Kid in the 1940s. "Barbarosa" was his last film.

Schepisi was one of the Australian New Wave wunderkinds who soon moved to making movies in Hollywood; "Barbarosa" was his first American film, and arguably Schepisi ("Six Degrees of Separation," "Roxanne") had the most illustrious career of the new Aussies -- with the probable exception of Peter Weir ("Witness," "Dead Poets Society," "Master and Commander").

The original screenplay was by William Wittliff, whose other works include "The Black Stallion," "Honeysuckle Rose" (also starring Nelson), "Legends of the Fall" and "The Perfect Storm." I love the naturalistic language of his dialogue, which sounds like authentic cowboy-speak:

Karl: "I killed a man."
Barbarosa: "Well, that ain't no high recommendation."
"He was a great big sumbitch; he was twice as big as me."
"Well, ol' Sam Colt makes everybody just about the same size."
"I hit him with a stick. I didn't use no Colt."

There's also a memorable bit where Barbarosa explains his theory of gunfighting. This comes soon after he meets Karl and is attacked by a Zavala assassin, calmly killing the man while standing stone still -- even after a bullet grazes his cheek.

"Keep your feet planted till you've done all the shooting you're doing to do. Nothing makes a man more nervous than somebody standing still when they oughtta be running like a spotted-ass ape."

A low-budget film, "Barbarosa" has a great feel for the sights and sounds of the late 19th-century border, from the chirping trumpet music to Barbarosa's slouchy hat, which looks like a cross between a sombrero and a Texas 10-galloner. There's also a neat trick he does with his Appaloosa horse, turning him around in place before taking off.

The last thing I'd like to talk about is the myth-making process. In many post-Golden Age Westerns, there's a conscious attempt to examine the way in which the gunfighters and bandits of the Old West gained their place in lore. In some films, like "Unforgiven," there's a character who's a writer or journalist who comments on the action and actively tries to build up the legend of events as soon as they've happened -- and even before.

In "Barbarosa," the hero himself is the primary author of his own legend. He actively engages in perpetuating his own story, especially supernatural tales about his habit of coming back from the dead.

In one famous scene, he is shot in the stomach by a fellow outlaw and falls into a grave Karl had been digging at his behest. When no one is watching, Barbarosa escapes while Karl fills in the empty hole. Despite the bullet in his belly, Barbarosa pauses that night to steal the bandits' gold and bury their leader in the sand up to his neck. When he gets back to town, he's pleased as punch to hear a song detailing how they exchanged places in the earth.

No doubt it was to his advantage to have his adversaries afraid of him, but watching the movie you can sense that Barbarosa revels in being a living myth. He plans to use all the gold he's stolen over the years to settle down with his wife and daughter, but of course the family trouble prevents that. The film ends with Karl taking up the horse, hat and mantle of Barbarosa to carry the legend on to a new generation.

4 stars

Reeling Backward: "Once Upon A Time in the West"

Over the years, I have heard several people point to the moment near the beginning of "Once Upon a Time in the West" where Henry Fonda guns down a small boy as one of the watershed moments in their cinematic lives.

Here was an actor who had played presidents, generals, fathers, everyday decent men. If there was anything close to a movie star who personified everything that was good and true about American circa 1968, Fonda was it.

And then he shows up dressed all in black and blows away a kid -- and smiles leeringly while he's doing it, too.

Sergio Leone had wanted to make a movie with Fonda for years, and by '68 his "spaghetti Westerns" -- Italian in origin, shot largely in Spain -- had gained enough international respect and box office clout to finally interest Fonda. The actor was getting older (63), his star was fading, so it must have seemed like a good time to flip his career on its head by tackling a sinister, even vile character.

I've also read that Charles Bronson was Leone's first choice to play the "Man with No Name" role in his "Fistful" trilogy that made Clint Eastwood a star. Bronson and Eastwood have much the same onscreen persona in the Leone films -- taciturn, hard-hearted but basically good men who say very little, and let their six-shooters do most of the talking.

Ennio Morricone was, in my opinion, one of the greatest film composers of all time. (I say "was," incorrectly -- in his early 80s, he's still going strong with TV and film scores, including 2007's wonderful and underrated "The Weatherman.") He used all sorts of props and human voices in his scores in addition to orchestral instruments -- think of the signature "ayi-ayi-yah" singing that opens the iconic theme for "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."

In "Once Upon a Time in the West," each of the four main characters has their own musical cue. For Cheyenne, the cagey bandit played by Jason Robards, it's a sad and sweet ditty with banjos and the sound of horse clops. The melody is done sometimes with a whistle, sometimes a banjo, and sometimes a banjo combined with a tinny piano. I just love how that sound captures the essence of the character. Cheyenne is a hard man who's very protective of his badass image -- mainly so people stay out of the way of his robbing and pillaging. But, as he says himself, even he wouldn't shoot a 6-year-old boy.

For Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale), the New Orleans prostitute who arrives in the dusty town of Flagstone to join her new husband, only to find him and his three children shot dead, the music takes on a syrupy tone with lots of strings. Jill is acknowledged by all three of the men whose stories revolve around her to be an extraordinary woman -- in some ways, she's tougher than all of them. But still, as in many Westerns the female characters represent society, stability and comfort, and Jill's musical theme reflects that.

The last two characters' music overlaps to a certain extent, and the reason becomes apparent at the very end when their story arcs converge in their quickdraw showdown in the sun.

Bronson's character is called simply Harmonica, and I don't think I have to explain what instrument dominates his music cue. It's not really a melody, though, but a plaintive wail consisting of just a few repeated notes. They echo across the plains in the film's opening scene, where three assassins await his arrival at a train station. We hear Harmonica's theme before we see him, playing the tiny instrument that is his name, his signature expression, his history and his inevitable destiny.

Morricone's score uses mostly just a few chords underneath the harmonica notes to give it some depth and a haunting lingering aspect. But when combined with some harsh electric guitar chords, later dissolving into swelling strings, the harmonica becomes a part of Frank's (Fonda) theme.

Frank is perhaps the most black-hearted villain ever to appear in a Western. With him, there's no prevarication or facade of civilization. He is a killer, who does what he does not only because there's money to be made at it, but because he genuinely enjoys it. Frank is not bothered by his nature; from Fonda's steely-eyed performance, I doubt he even gives it much thought.

Frank despises weakness, which is why he never shows any himself, and immediately preys upon others who do. Frank has spent the last few years working for Morton, a train magnate who dreams of completing the great East-West railroad line, even as his body is crippled by disease.

Morton hobbles around with crutches and a back brace, and uses a special drop-down set of hand bars to navigate the custom train car that serves as his mobile home and office. Frank calls Morton's condition "dry rot," and says any reasonable man would've put a bullet in his own brain long ago. For now, Frank is content to rub out any homesteaders who get in the way of Morton's railroad -- such as the McBains -- but it's clear he has ambitions to push the boss aside.

The story is an interesting and convoluted mix of divergent motivations and alliances. Jill believes Cheyenne and his men were responsible for killing her husband, since the murderers wore the long dusters that are his gang's trademark. But it actually was Frank and his men, looking to throw suspicion off themselves.

Cheyenne visits Jill to try to convince her he had nothing to do with it. Harmonica, seeming to have no allies or motivation, shows up and inserts himself into this vortex, protecting Jill when some of Frank's men return to finish the job. Harmonica and Cheyenne end up helping each other out of convenience, and at one point Harmonica actually protects Frank from his own men, who have been bribed by Barton to turn traitor.

Frank, meanwhile, is irritated by Harmonica's repeated intrusions, and his refusal to give his real name -- only reeling off names of men Frank has killed.

One could write a whole treatise about the sexual politics of this movie. In this worldview, men are all rapacious opportunists who revel in using their physical power to subjugate women. Harmonica, despite being the ostensible hero of the film, holds Jill down and rips her dress. Frank takes her prisoner and forcibly has sex with her. She goes along with it, but Frank correctly surmises that she'd do anything to save her own skin, even accept on her body the hands of the man who killed her spouse. Only Cheyenne maintains something resembling a respectful difference.

"Once Upon a Time in the West" is a great and strange Western, the apex of Sergio Leone's spaghetti movies.

3.5 stars

Reeling Backward: "Catlow"

Alright, here's something I didn't know existed (and probably would have been perfectly content never knowing): A Leonard Nimoy nude scene.

Yes, really.

It's from this 1971 Western starring Yul Brynner called "Catlow." I believe it's just been released on DVD for the first time. It's a moderately entertaining star vehicle for Brynner as a rapscallion cowboy bandit. There's so much humor and hijinks, in fact, that you'd almost have to call it a Western comedy.

Nimoy, fresh off the cancellation of "Star Trek," plays the heavy, a bounty hunter by the name of Bill Miller. Nimoy actually makes for a convincing villain, with his aquiline features and a full beard. He's sorta got that whole "evil Spock" thing going on.

Anyway, at one point Catlow corners Miller while he's in the bathtub, and there ensues a rather lengthy fight scene with Nimoy in the buff. I guess it's supposed to be an intense scene, but for obvious reasons I found it pretty hilarious.

And before you ask: No, you don't get see little Spock. Shame on you.

"Catlow" is based on the Louis L'Amour novel, and was directed by Sam Wanamaker with a screenplay by Scott Finch. They're both TV guys, and it shows. The level of humor is pitched right at television level, as are the production values in general. Although there are a few bloody spurt scenes, using that incredibly orange fake blood they used during that period.

The main interaction is between Catlow and Ben Cowan (played by Richard Crenna), a lawman with a warrant for Catlow's arrest. The two men are old friends -- and possibly once partners in crime -- who enjoy a bantering game of one-upmanship. Cowan repeatedly arrests Catlow, only to have Catlow escape with the aid of his gang or some clever sleight of hand.

Catlow's got a bead on $2 million in hidden gold, and Cowan is trying to recover it for the American government, with the Mexican army trying to stake its claim, too. Oh, and Catlow has a Mexican girlfriend whose loyalties are constantly in question. Nimoy is the X factor, hired by a Catlow enemy to take him out before the lawful authorities can nab him.

All in all, it's not a bad flick, although as I say the level of sophistication is pretty low. I enjoyed it in part just because I love hearing Yul Brynner talk; somehow I find it enjoyable and hoot-worthy simultaneously. Brynner was apparently mostly Russian, although he sometimes claimed Japanese ancestry in an attempt to seem more exotic.

2.5 stars