True Grit
The Duke received long-overdue Oscar recognition for his colorful, scenery-chewing role as the one-eyed, hard-drinking Marshal Rooster Cogburn. As with many of his later films, True Grit is a so-so story made into something special by its star. It has its share of flaws, most notably a pair of dud leads, but Wayne and Henry Hathaway make it into a fun, boisterous old-school Western.
Strong-willed Arkansas farm girl Mattie Ross (Kim Darby) goes on a vendetta against Tom Chaney (Jeff Corey), the drunken vagrant who murdered her father (John Pickard). Mattie enlists the help of the colorful Marshal Rooster Cogburn (John Wayne) and arrogant Texas Ranger Labeouf (Glenn Campbell) to track down Cheney, who has fallen in with bandit Ned Pepper (Robert Duvall).
Above all, True Grit is a wonderfully old-fashioned Western. Free of the more broad and obnoxious humor of many of Wayne's films, it's nonetheless a very accessible Wayne Western, with a laid-back charm to hook even casual Western fans. The movie has fun with Wayne's usual image, casting him as a drunken wastrel and scoundrel who's likeable in spite of himself. The film moves at a brisk clip, and there's enough action and humor to keep any viewer interested. It may not be a masterpiece, but it sure is entertaining.
The film suffers from the shortcomings of many later Wayne films. The most egregious is the requisite Duke sidekicks: Mattie and Labeouf are thoroughly obnoxious characters, and we almost root for their demise later in the film. The villains are under-developed and silly, particularly the turkey-clucking idiot. After the excellent showdown between Cogburn and Pepper's gang, the denouement with Chaney and Mattie seems anti-climactic. Fortunately, the production values and overall entertainment value are enough to compensate for the flaws.
Hathaway delivers a first-class production full of exciting, well-staged action scenes and beautiful vistas. Lucien Ballard delivers some gorgeous cinematography; his vistas of timber-strewn mountains and autumnal forests compare favorably to his work on Peckinpah's Ride the High Country. The brisk pacing and well-told if slight story greatly benefit the film, as does Marguerite Roberts' witty, authentically-rustic script. Elmer Bernstein's score is fine although not among his best work.
Wayne is above all having fun here, and his spirit is infectious. He chews lots of scenery, cracks wise and kicks ass, relishing his self-effacing role as the "one-eyed fat man". The scene where Cogburn faces off against a quartet of baddies, twirling a rifle in one hand, a pistol in the other, and holding the reins in his teeth, is the epitome of old-fashioned badassery, the Duke at his macho best. It's not a patch on his more Oscar-worthy turns in Red River and The Searchers, but it's a damn sight better than his slumming in Rio Lobo, The Undefeated and Chisum.
The rest of the cast is hit-and-miss. Kim Darby is beyond obnoxious as Mattie, and in the young sidekick role, singer Glenn Campbell is unbelievably wooden. These two bog down much of the film and it takes the Duke's best efforts to balance out their nonsense. Robert Duvall does well as a likeable villain, but Jeff Corey's (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) snivelling killer is underdeveloped. The great Strother Martin (The Wild Bunch) has a fun cameo, and Jeremy Slate (Born Losers) and Dennis Hopper turn up as bit-part baddies.
The Shootist
The Shootist, Wayne's final film, is a horse of an entirely different color. A revisionist Western by Don Siegel (Two Mules For Sister Sara), it isn't a terribly original film, borrowing liberally from The Gunfighter and Ride the High Country. That pales compared to the film's inevitable poignancy: Wayne, who would later die of cancer, playing a legendary gunfighter dying of cancer, remains the greatest, most pitch-perfect send-off a movie star ever had.
Aging gunslinger J.B. Books (John Wayne) finds out from his friend Doc Hostetler (James Stewart) that he's dying of terminal cancer. With only a few weeks to live, Books hopes to die peacefully, but he's made too many enemies to do so. While fighting off publicity-hounds and glory-seeking assassins, he romances hotel manager Bond Rodgers (Lauren Bacall) and teaches her surly son Gillom (Ron Howard) the tricks of the trade. Unable to escape his past, Books sets up a final showdown with a trio of local troublemakers (Richard Boone, Bill McKinney and Hugh O'Brian).
The Shootist is the perfect epitaph to Wayne's career. After decades of embodying the American character, the Duke was slumming, getting by purely on charisma and iconography. Between True Grit and The Shootist was a parade of mediocre-to-awful Westerns with little to recommend them besides the star (The Cowboys being a notable exception). Given a chance to go out with a bang, Wayne grabs the opportunity head-on, showing that, besides his undeniable star power, he was a damn fine actor too.
The Books character is schizophrenic. Siegel wants to subvert the Duke's righteous image, creating a character theoretically darker than even Ethan Edwards. Books is introduced gut-shooting a would-be highwayman and leaving him to die; he later shoots another wounded man in the head. And yet Wayne's iconography overcomes the revisionism. A well-chosen montage of old favorites (including clips from Red River, Rio Bravo and El Dorado) emphasizes his indomitable, righteous persona, and we identify Books with those iconic heros rather than the scumbag Siegel wants us to see. It's a credit to Wayne that he's able to balance both interpretations, and gives one of his very best performances: subtle, subdued and quietly powerful.
As with our previous film, if anyone other than Wayne were the lead, The Shootist probably wouldn't work. The plot is a reworking of Henry King's The Gunfighter (1950), except that Books won't accept Gregory Peck's passive fate in that film. Gillom is a typical naive young pup - a character that's been done before, and rarely better. As in our previous film, the villains are badly handled; Hugh O'Brian at least has a cool intro, but none of them do anything before the final showdown. One element which does work is the wonderfully-tentative romance between Books and Bond, which enhances the film's autumnal nature; it's two lonely people connecting in the twilight of their lives, and it's wonderful.
Siegel handles a classy, economic production. His direction is appropriately subdued and elegiac, with Bruce Surtees' gorgeous photography and Oscar-winning art direction by Robert Boyle and Arthur Jeph Parker (the cavernous saloon is a particularly impressive work) sweetening the deal. The violence is bloody but lacks the flair of a Peckinpah flick, which would not fit the material. Many people complain about the set-up and staging of the final showdown, but as a bravura set-piece it's fabulous, with a wonderfully muted conclusion. Elmer Bernstein contributes a low-key, mournful score that fits the film perfectly.
Lauren Bacall gives a fine late-career performance, cast against type as the brittle but sympathetic hotel lady. Ron Howard is adequate but little more. "Guest stars" and old Wayne buddies James Stewart (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance), John Carradine (Stagecoach) and Harry Morgan (How the West Was Won) shine. Scatman Crothers (The Shining) has a nice bit, though Richard Boone (The Alamo), Hugh O'Brian (TV's The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp) and Bill McKinney's (The Outlaw Josey Wales) villains aren't around long enough to make an impression.
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