John Ford: The Columbia Films Collection

New DVD set being released by TCM: John Ford - The Columbia Films Collection, including several of Ford's more obscure works. The New York Times has a nice write-up here.

Films included are:

The Whole Town's Talking (1935)
The Long Gray Line (1955)
Gideon's Day (1958)
The Last Hurrah (1958)
Two Rode Together (1961)

I'm a champion of Two Rode Together, a more pointed revisiting of The Searchers (though not as artistically accomplished). The Long Gray Line is... okay. As a Jack Hawkins fan, I'm most keen on catching Gideon's Day.

Good news to wake up to on a dreary Sunday.

The Horse Soldiers

John Ford's Civil War adventure feels like it should be a lot better. The Horse Soldiers (1959) is beautifully shot, with John Wayne and William Holden making a dynamic star pairing. But the movie never quite gels, a disappointing collection of exciting action and awkward drama.

In spring 1863, Union and Confederate armies are deadlocked before Vicksburg, the Rebels' last stronghold on the Mississippi. General Ulysses S. Grant (Stan Jones) recruits Colonel John Marlowe (John Wayne) to lead a daring raid on Confederate supply lines. Marlowe plans to ride from La Grange, Tennessee down to Newton Station, destroy the supply depot there, then continue south to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The mission grows complicated when the Federals encounter Hanna Hunter (Constance Towers), a headstrong Southerner they arrest for fear of informing, and when Marlowe and his surgeon Major Kendall (William Holden) grow to loathe each other.

Based on Harold Sinclair's novel, The Horse Soldiers is a heavily fictionalized version of Grierson's Raid. At a time when the Union cavalry was a laughingstock ("Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?" went a rueful joke), Colonel Benjamin Grierson led 1,700 troopers on a daring raid that cut Rebel supply lines to Vicksburg, tied up thousands of Rebel troops and safely arrived in Baton Rouge with few casualties. These scratch Yankee horsemen put Southern cavalrymen like Nathan Bedford Forrest to shame, and materially aided Grant's campaign too. It's a fascinating tale of true-life derringdo tailor made for a movie.

The Horse Soldiers is certainly a handsome movie. Ford provides beautiful shots of cavalry columns on the horizon, all captured by ace photographer William C. Clothier. Ford consciously recalls Matthew Brady's photographs, with carefully composed camp scenes and sweeping battle tableaux: one early scene even has Marlowe and staff photographed by a war correspondent. Ford stages two fabulous battles, especially the ambush at Newton Station, alongside colorful vignettes: a confrontation with two Confederate deserters (Strother Martin and Denver Pyle); Kendall chatting with a friendly Rebel colonel (Carleton Young); and a humorous episode where the Yankees encounter teenaged military cadets (loosely inspired by the Battle of New Market, Virginia).

Ford takes his only direct stab at America's biggest conflict (vignettes in Judge Priest and How the West Was Won notwithstanding), with commendable complexity. Ford consistently emphasizes the "gentlemanly" conduct of both sides. Marlowe's troops kill no civilians (accurate to Grierson's raid), care for Rebel wounded and bloodlessly disengage from the underage cadets. Yet this chivalry is contrasted with chaotic battles, Kendall's bloody operations and scenes of material destruction. Kendall proves the noblest character, putting aside nationality to treat wounded on both sides. Not quite an antiwar tract, The Horse Soldiers nonetheless eschews predictable flag-waving.

Then why isn't The Horse Soldiers a classic? Despite its quality set pieces, Ford's interstitial material rings consistently false. The Marlowe-Kendall rivalry between never seems authentic; writers John Lee Mahin and Martin Rackin give Marlowe a cringeworthy personal reason for hating doctors. No points for guessing how they patch things up. Similarly, headstrong Hannah falls for Marlowe simply because box office demands it. That's neglecting annoying side characters like the Victor McLaglen-lite Sergeant Kirby (Judson Pratt) and Marlowe's Lt. Colonel (Willis Bouchey), who reminds us he's a politician every time he's on screen. The finale also feels rushed, though for a reason: stuntman Fred Kennedy's death wrapped filming prematurely.

John Wayne and William Holden redeem a lot. These tough guy leads have great chemistry, selling their thin characters and hokey rivalry through sheer charisma. Constance Towers (Sergeant Rutledge) is compelling early on as a resourceful Southern belle; later she deteriorates into token love interest. Willis Bouchey and tennis star Althea Gibson play annoying one-note roles. Strother Martin and Denver Pyle get one of the best scenes as scurvy Rebel deserters; Ford regulars Ken Curtis, Hank Worden, Russell Simpson, Anna Lee and Carleton Young put in mandatory appearances.

The Horse Soldiers is an entertaining flick, but seems like a missed opportunity. There's plenty to like, but Ford's mixed execution makes it merely a good picture.

The Plough and the Stars

John Ford's The Plough and the Stars (1936) should be good. Based on Sean O'Casey's controversial Easter Rising play (which caused riots in Dublin during its initial 1926 run), it seems like a no-brainer for the director who'd just won an Oscar for The Informer (1935). But Ford's stilted handling of the material, mixed with awkward casting and studio meddling, produce a boring misfire.

1916 Ireland erupts into the Easter Rising, an ill-fated rebellion against British rule. Jack Clitheroe (Preston Foster) joins the rebels, wife Nora (Barbara Stanwyck) not comprehending his decision to get involved. Ireland's working class stays aloof from the rebellion, more upset by the Rising's violent chaos than British oppression. The Rebellion is swiftly crushed, the Rising's leaders arrested alongside socialists and antiwar activists. Nora and Jack argue over whether everything was worthwhile.

Ford viewed Plough as a pet project. He received O'Casey's blessing, cast actors from the play's original run (Arthur Shields, F.J. McCormick, Denis O'Dea) and filmed in Ireland. But Ford immediately clashed with RKO producer Sam Briskin, who demanded Ford neuter O'Casey's socialist politics and emphasize the story's romance. Things got so bad that Ford refused to reshoot key scenes with Barbara Stanwyck and Preston Foster, forcing Briskin to bring in an AD. Ford disowned the finished product, complaining RKO "completely ruined the damned thing." The movie received a critical roasting, flopped and was duly forgotten.

It's little surprise then that The Plough and the Stars stinks. Ford and writer Dudley Nichols's ragged narrative diffuses over a large cast of cipher characters. The central romance falls flat, while O'Casey's contrast of working class cynicism with nationalist violence scarcely comes through. We see Maggie (Una O'Connor) lose her shop to rioting Dubliners, while hard-drinking Fluther Good (Barry Fitzgerald) wonders whether nationalist revolt can achieve social justice. There's certainly potential here, with O'Casey avoiding easy resolutions, but Ford's staging falls back too frequently on stentorian position speeches.

After The Informer's Expressionist nightmare view of Ireland, Ford's wartime Dublin feels flat and perfunctory. The repetitive action scenes make liberal use of stock footage; a crude running gag outspoken characters being machine gunned wears thin. Cinematographer Joseph H. August drapes scenes in shadow without motivation, as if darkness self-generates mood. Ford's one memorable set piece has an Irish sniper shot by British troops glide silently off the rooftop, arms outstretched Christlike. The rest is rote hackwork.

Barbara Stanwyck gives an uncharacteristically awful performance. Excellent playing brassy femmes and comedy leads, Babs flounders playing an hysterical wreck, mouthing Nichols' (or O'Casey's?) overripe verbiage without conviction. Preston Foster is stiff as a board. The Irish players fare better: Barry Fitzgerald (The Quiet Man) steals every scene as a cynical revolutionary. Denis O'Dea, Una O'Connor and Arthur Shields have showy bit parts. But they're too thinly sketched to hold more than momentary interest.

The Plough and the Stars is a thoroughly soporific experience. Despite the interesting story it's a dramatic dud that might be John Ford's worst feature.

The Prisoner of Shark Island

The Prisoner of Shark Island (1936) is one of John Ford's more obscure films. Undeservedly so, as despite some overanguished pleading, it's a compelling, artfully made film.

Samuel Mudd (Warner Baxter) is a Maryland doctor with Southern sympathy who, one night in April 1865, mends the broken leg of a mysterious stranger. Turns out it's John Wilkes Booth, Abraham Lincoln's assassin, and Mudd is soon arrested and convicted of treason, railroaded by a government out for vengeance and not concerned with Mudd's innocence or guilt. Mudd is sent to the Dry Tortugas, a forboding island in the Gulf of Mexico swarming with sharks and mosquitos. He tries to break out of jail with the help of wife (Gloria Stuart), irascible father-in-law (Claude Gillingwater) and an ex-slave (Ernest Whitman) who just happens to be stationed there as a soldier, but it's foiled by the sadistic Sergeant Rawlins (John Carradine). Finally, when the prison is laid low by yellow fever, Mudd must choose between his desire for justice and his code as a doctor to help any patient.

A lot less nuanced than the recent, similarly-themed The Conspirator, Shark Island takes a feverishly indignant stand against injustice. The bloody-minded prosecutors are determined to sacrifice Mudd to appease the nation's conscience, with a War Dept. official lecturing the prosecutors not to let justice get in the way of a guilty verdict. There's not much historical veracity to claiming Mudd's innocence, and some questionable racial politics (Mudd is the only one who can "handle" the prison's black garrison when they mutiny) don't help either. But it makes for compelling drama all the same, and the movie spends as much time on Mudd's survival as the injustice of his convinction.

The movie is a treat to watch, thanks to a rip-roaring pace and some forbidding photography and art direction. Bert Glennon's moody, expressive photography catches the right note of doom, and Ford stages some impressive set-pieces: Mudd's escape attempt is a long, thrilling and extremely suspenseful scene with an unexpected ending. Ford plays up his favorite North-South reconciliation themes, including a nice scene where Lincoln requests a band play Dixie ("I've always liked that song"), and uses period music like Maryland, My Maryland to good effect.

Warner Baxter makes an appealing protagonist, convincing as the family man, the forthright doctor, and the indignant victim of injustice. You'll definitely be cheering for Mudd to break out of jail, and as he treats yellow fever patients single-handed during a hurricane. Gloria Stuart (My Favorite Year) is radiant as Mudd's wife, and Claude Gillingwater provides jots of comic relief. John Carradine gets top acting honors, devouring scenery with relish ("Hiya Judas!"). Harry Carey Sr. (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) gets a nice role as the firm-but-fair warden. Ernest Whiting's Buck is definitely an Uncle Tom stereotype, but he does get a few nice moments - the movie ends with him.

Despite some dubious passages, The Prisoner of Shark Island is an intense, affecting look at injustice and human survival.

The Quiet Man

Ah, The Quiet Man. In previous reviews I've referred disparagingly to this film as an overwrought, vapid piece of blarney. After a rewatch last week, however, I'm happy to renege.

The Quiet Man (1952) is Ford's most personal project, having spent twenty years trying to adapt Maurice Walsh's Saturday Evening Post story to the screen; studios repeatedly refused to adapt it, but Ford had last laugh when it proved a huge critical and box-office hit. Yes, it reeks of sentimentality and cheesy humor, and its depiction of Ireland is as realistic as a Lucky Charms cereal box, but it's an utterly charming film, from its excellent leads to its beautiful photography.

Sean Thornton (John Wayne) is a boxer from Pittsburgh who travels to his ancestral home in Inisfree, Ireland. Thornton courts the fiery Mary Kate Danaher (Maureen O'Hara), but her thuggish brother Will (Victor McLaglen) resents Sean for purchasing a property he'd been eying. Mary loves Sean but refuses to marry him unless he can secure her dowry, and the two drift apart when Sean misinterprets this as greed. Sean becomes involved in the town's affairs - Will's attraction to the Widow Tillane (Mildred Natwick), Anglican Minister Playfair's (Arthur Shields) problems keeping a flock, a local horse race - and a terrible secret from Sean's past comes out. Ultimately, though, things aren't resolved until Sean swallows his pride and agrees to fight Will, realizing Mary Kate's true motives.

You either love or hate John Ford's various tics and foibles: the cornball humor, the bawdy fistfights, the broadly drawn Oirish caricatures. The Quiet Man has all of them in abundance, along with a nearly non-existent plot. Ford provided a stark picture of war-torn, destitute Ireland in The Informer and The Plough and the Stars, but The Quiet Man is a pure fairy tale, a paean to a non-existent Ireland where everything is green, everyone is amiably eccentric and problems are solved with a fistfight and a shot of Guinness. Even the Anglican minister is a welcome member of the community. If Ireland were such a magical, heavenly place, a cynical viewer wonders why Ford's ancestors ever left.

This seems pedantic, however, considering that The Quiet Man is such an endearing and enjoyable film. If Ford resorts to cliche and stereotype, he does so in a wholly affectionate manner, and provides an extremely likable cast of archetypes. The movie is slow-paced and languorous but never dull, and the director's love for the material rubs off on the audience. Some critics lambaste the film as sexist, proving that they need to get their head out of their asses: Mary Kate is too strong a character for that, and Ford ridicules such attitudes throughout the film.

Ford provides a richly crafted, beautiful film. Ford and photographers Winston Hoch and Archie Stout make wonderful use of County Mayo locations, everything a rich, impossibly verdant green. Ford provides a number of vivid sequences: a strikingly-edited flashback scene, Sean and Mary Kate's first confrontation, the courting session in the rainstorm. The final brawl is the only scene where Ford goes a bit overboard, but it's the only logical conclusion to events. Victor Young's beautiful score makes fine use of Irish ballads and folk songs.

John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara have their second screen pairing and possibly their best. Cast against type, Wayne gives an exceptional performance as a gentle giant eager to escape his past: the scattered hints of Sean's past are both poetic and clever ("That name has a ring to it"). O'Hara is perfect as the strong, stubborn Irish colleen, unwilling to back down or lose face, even at the cost of Sean's love. Wayne and O'Hara have indescribable chemistry, battling, bickering and falling in love, a perfect Taming of the Shrew couple that achieves perfect understanding.

The cast is full to bursting with Ford regulars, even non-Irishmen like Ward Bond and Ken Curtis, with some choice gems mixed in. Barry Fitzgerald (Bringing Up Baby) is hilarious as Sean's "chaperon," a broadly-comic yet endearing character. Victor McLaglen's drunk Irishman shtick at least fits the material better than in other Ford films, and Mildred Natwick (The Long Voyage Home) has one of her best roles. Jack McGowran (Doctor Zhivago) gets a small part as McLaglen's little toady.

The Quiet Man is a real treat. Anyone with low tolerance for goofy comedy and Irish blarney should stay away, but those less picky will find it a lovable, charming film.

Wagon Master

We've got more John Ford reviews than you can shake a stick at here at Nothing is Written. Today's entry is Wagon Master (1950), one of the director's greatest yet most overlooked Westerns.

Travis (Ben Johnson) and Sandy (Harry Carey Jr.) are two horse traders who agree to help Mormon Elder Wiggs (Ward Bond) lead his flock to California. The arduous journey across the Arizona desert has a number of complications: a trio of "showfolk" (Joanne Dru, Alan Mowbray, Ruth Clifford) joins the team, and a band of Navajo Indians eyes the Mormons wearily. Worst of all, however, is the arrival of Shiloh Clegg (Charles Kemper) and his gang of outlaws, who join the wagon train to evade a sheriff's posse.

Aside from Stagecoach, Wagon Master might be the purest expression of Ford's thematic preoccupations. The wagon train is the perfect metaphor for the American Dream circa 1850, with the outcast Mormons seeking a better life out west. Travis, Sandy and the "showfolk" aren't especially popular either, and end up welcomed into the fold. Ford's emphasis on ritual serves this film perfectly, with the inevitable square dances and singing scenes forging a strong sense of community. Ford treats the Navajos fairly but notes the innate mistrust between the races in a telling scene. The inevitable showdown with the Cleggs is almost an afterthought, a conventional coda to a unique, richly poetic work.

Ford, as usual, delivers a master class in directing. The plot doesn't really start for half-an-hour, but the early scenes are just beautiful to watch, with gorgeous scenery, beautiful shots of the wagon train on the move and pleasant characters making it an enjoyable ride. The action scenes are relatively brief and organic to the story: a key bit of violence towards the end is really shocking. Some viewers might be turned off by the Sons of the Pioneers's corny song score but it fits the action perfectly.

Ben Johnson shines in a rare lead performance. The gruff yet amiable Johnson drifted into acting via work as a rodeo cowboy and stuntman, and he gets no end of opportunities to show off his horsemanship. Besides, he's a pretty good actor too. Harry Carey Jr., usually a stiff and uninteresting screen presence, gives easily his best performance. Ward Bond gets a wonderfully layered character, a relatively new convert still struggling to control his "sinful" ways. Charles Kemper (Intruder in the Dust) plays a notably hateful, whip-wielding villain a la Walter Brennan and Lee Marvin in other Ford flicks, with James Arness (Them!) and Hank Worden (The Searchers) among his henchmen. Jane Darwell (The Grapes of Wrath) has an amusing bit as well.

Wagon Master is one of John Ford's best Westerns. Like all of the director's best work, it's a simple story beautifully told, and for Western fans like me it's a real treasure.

Judge Priest

John Ford's Judge Priest (1934) stands mostly a curio today. Badly dated, talky and ponderous, its appeal to modern audiences is nonexistent.

Judge Billy Priest (Will Rogers) is the judge presiding over a 19th Century Kentucky town. Priest helps black worker Jeff Poindexter (Stepin Fetchit) escape a false charge and takes the man under his wing. Nephew Jerome (Tom Brown) has just been appointed to the bar, but his mother won't accept Jerome's romance with Ellie May (Anita Louise). Things become nasty, however, when vagrant Bob Gillis (David Landau) kills a man. A conflict of interest forces Priest to turn over the case to Jerome, but it's Reverend Brand (Henry B. Walthall) who drops the biggest bombshell.

We've discussed before how comedy is not John Ford's forte. Judge Priest comes billed as a comedy but doesn't get a single laugh in its entire run-time. The movie's light on slapstick but the silly banter between the lovers, the goofy courtroom antics and ministrel-show antics really grate. This film was a big hit in 1934, or so I'm told; if so, tastes in humor really have changed.

Judge Priest contains some non-PC elements to rankle modern viewers, especially the stereotyped black characters. Mostly though, its problems lie in simple craftsmanship. The movie is very slow and ponderous, taking forever to get going or generate interest, and can't really decide if it's a straight comedy, drama or a mix of both. Occasionally an involving scene crops up, only to be smothered by repetitive filler. And I'm still not clear on what we're supposed to get out of the finale. Ford's direction is fairly flat, though he stages the courtroom scenes well (presaging Young Mr. Lincoln) and provides some interesting Griffith-esque montage work in the overwrought climax.

Will Rogers is the film's saving grace. The legendary humorist is perfectly cast as the wise, witty and worldly judge, dispensing sanity and wry commentary, and getting the movie's big emotional scene dealing with his deceased wife. Henry B. Walthall does well in his featured bit as a gabby priest. The black characters are rather hideous. Stepin Fetchit (Bend of the River) was a gifted comedian and actor, but his schtick here is just cringe-inducing. The talented Hattie McDaniel (Gone With the Wind) does little more than sing, God bless her.

So yeah, you can probably skip Judge Priest unless you're a Will Rogers enthusiast (any of those around?) or a Ford completist.

The Wings of Eagles

I went into The Wings of Eagles (1957) with low expectations, and came away pleasantly surprised. John Ford's sprawling tribute to naval aviator, war hero and screenwriter Frank "Spig" Wead is a touching, well-balanced biopic that ably mixes comedy, tragedy and fine performances.

Frank "Spig" Wead (John Wayne) is a daredevil Naval pilot in the early '20s. Wead generates headlines through his rivalry with Army ace Captain Hazard (Kenneth Tobey), wins an international air race and convinces the "big brass" to build up the Naval air wing in preparation for future conflicts. But his naval career puts great strain on his marriage with the feisty Min (Maureen O'Hara), leading to a separation. When attempting to reconcile with Min, Spig suffers a paralyzing fall that leaves him paralyzed. While recovering, Spig tries his hand at writing, resulting in a successful play and a deal with Hollywood bigshot John Dodge (Ward Bond). Spig tries to reconcile with Min, but this is put aside when Japan bombs Pearl Harbor.

John Ford did a slew of "service comedies" in the 1950s, none of which rank among the director's best work. Most of these are either uneven (The Long Gray Line, Mister Roberts) or awful (What Price Glory?). Ford loved the military too much to outright ridicule it, and could rarely mix his broad low comedy stylings with the subject's seriousness. Ford's brand of comedy - drunken brawls, pratfalls and slapstick silliness - hasn't aged well, with even his better films like The Searchers weighed down by egregious shenanigans.

The Wings of Eagles compares favorably to the above films, with Ford skillfully mixing comedy and drama. The early sections are broad comedy in the approved Ford fashion, but it works here: Spig's haphazard first flight and the Army-Navy brawls are crude but undeniably funny set-pieces. Ford and writers Frank Fenton and William Wister Haines segue into tragedy - Spig and Min's loss of a child, his painful injury and excrutiating recovery - with smoothness and understatement uncharacteristic of its director. Perhaps it's out of devotion to his buddy Wead (who wrote They Were Expendable), but Ford takes unusual care to balance these tonal shifts. It probably helps, too, that none of the protagonists are Irish.

These transitions are helped by a well-structured story and sharply-realized characters. Spig is a very flawed protagonist: his insubordination is presented as "charming" but his complete devotion to the Navy leads to an awful marriage for Min and their daughters. Spig's long and painful recovery ("I'm gonna move that toe!") makes for painful viewing, and Ford deftly avoids cliches and sentimentality. The well-oiled story avoids the schematic, repetitive plotting of The Long Gray Line, which recycles the same jokes and conflicts for two-and-a-half hours. The only drawbacks are the World War II scenes: heavily larded with stock footage (granted, some of it shot by Ford himself), these bits are stiff and anti-climactic after Spig's recovery and Hollywood success.

John Wayne gives a top five performance as Spig. Wayne proves again what a fine actor he is, capturing all sides of a complex character: the cocky, daredevil pilot, the consummate patriot, the budding writer and the guilt-ridden absent husband/father. Wayne nails the movie's big emotional moments, making Spig's recovery painful to watch: seeing Hollywood's toughest, most masculine star face-down and crippled on a hospital bed is heart-rending.

Opposite the Duke, Maureen O'Hara has an equally well-realised character, with her feisty Colleen channelled into a long-suffering wife. O'Hara and Wayne had explosive chemistry, but usually teamed up in weak films: Rio Grande is the weakest of the "Cavalry Trilogy," and I've never thought much of The Quiet Man's overwrought silliness. (The less said about McLintock! or Big Jake, the better.) Here, given more than predictable "battling lovers," both Wayne and O'Hara shine, their big scenes (the baby's death, their attempted reconciliation) bursting with palpable emotion and poignancy.

Dan Dailey (What Price Glory?) is a perfect foil to Spig, a devoted service buddy who's closer to Spig than his own wife. Kenneth Tobey (Gunfight at the OK Corral) gets an unusually big part as Spig's Army rival, an obvious analog for Jimmy Doolittle. Ward Bond has a hilarious cameo as pompous film director "John Dodge." Ken Curtis gives a fine performance, far removed from the crack-brained hicks he assayed in The Searchers and Two Rode Together.

The Wings of Eagles is definitely an underrated John Ford film. If not as thematically interesting or visually-striking as his masterpieces, it's still an entertaining, uplifting piece of work, and a fine tribute to an American hero.

The Lost Patrol (1934)

John Ford's The Lost Patrol (1934) is an existential war film masquerading as a straightforward adventure. Dated and flawed, it nonetheless retains a certain power through its grim, stark simplicity - and Victor McLaglen's powerhouse performance.

Mesopotamia, 1917 at the height of World War I. A British cavalry patrol loses its Captain to an Arab sniper, leaving his tough Sergeant (Victor McLaglen) to take command. Unfortunately, the Captain is the only man who knew the patrol's destination, so the unit must wander, hoping to link up with British forces. They come across an oasis, but find themselves pinned down by the mysterious Arabs, who pick off the command one by one. As their numbers dwindle, the soldiers become desperate: some pick a fight with the Arabs, some try to escape, and religious nut Saunders (Boris Karloff) loses his mind completely.

The Lost Patrol is a lean, mean film, clocking in at a fast-paced 72 minutes. In approved Agatha Christie style, the main characters are bumped off one by one, with straightforward dialogue and exposition marking time between deaths. What was likely a budget-conscious decision to limit the film's scope gives the movie a grim, nihilistic feel. The "dirty Arabs" aren't seen until the very end but are always present, coloring the film with a bleak sense of doom. Some memorably nasty touches - a tragic "friendly fire" incident, the encounter with a hapless aviator - enhance the fatalistic atmosphere. No one is safe and everyone's a target, with the soldiers, lost in the desert and ignorant of their destination, having no choice but to stay put.

The movie isn't without flaws. The supporting cast overacts terribly, led by Boris Karloff's truly bizarre performance, and Ford and writer Dudley Nichols trot out cliche after cliche, with characters playing the harmonica, musing about their home life and showing pictures of their kids before dying. Equally tiresome is the utter stupidity of the soldiers, who shout, argue, climb trees and fall asleep when it would be best to hunker down and shut up. Max Steiner's overbearing score is another problem: musically it's fine, but loud, insistent cues drown out quiet dialogue scenes to ill-effect.

Victor McLaglen owns the film, delivering one of his best performances. His boisterous acting style is wildly hit-or-miss: in The Informer and Gunga Din, McLaglen's hamminess fits the bill, but in Ford's Cavalry Trilogy and The Quiet Man, he just seems a crude buffoon. In Lost Patrol, however, McLaglen dials down his acting style, giving a wonderfully subdued portrayal of a professional soldier, ever calm under fire.

If you can ignore the dated aspects and incongruities, The Lost Patrol is a fine, intense little film. Other war movies have done the Ten Little Indians schtick better (49th Parallel, Men in War) but few equal Ford's atmosphere of bleak fatalism.

The Long Voyage Home

This somewhat-forgotten John Ford entry is an underlooked gem. Dark, grim and downbeat, The Long Voyage Home is a fine anti-heroic drama, simply told and artistically expressed.

The SS Glencaim is a small British merchant vessel docked in South America when World War II breaks out. The vessel is assigned to deliver a cargo of high-explosives back to England. The return voyage is decidedly rocky: an American sailor, Yank (Ward Bond) is fatally injured in a storm, secretive Englishman Smitty (Ian Hunter) is suspected of being a German spy, and German aircraft provide a danger. Swedish crewman Ole Hanson (John Wayne) just wants to get home and away from the war, but when the ship arrives in London he's nearly shanghaied onto service with another vessel. Crewmate Driscoll (Thomas Mitchell), a bluff, amiable Irishman, won't stand for this and leads the crew in a rescue attempt.

Aside from some raucous fisticuffs at the beginning, The Long Voyage Home is definitely not your typical Ford film. Working off a series of short plays by Eugene O'Neill (The Iceman Cometh), Ford creates an "anti-adventure film" where the usual maritime heroics are completely absent. Life at sea is monotonous and dangerous, especially with a war on, and the movie is a series of effective vignettes detailing the crew's travails and sacrifices. The film's atmosphere and tone are very much in tune with They Were Expendable, Ford's superior Navy epic celebrating futile heroism (or heroic futility?), but without even that film's cold comfort conclusion.

As expected, Ford provides marvelous direction. The movie is deliberately paced and drags in a few spots, but despite being mostly talk the movie's never boring. Gregg Toland's photography is astonishing, moody, expressive and capturing the fog-shrouded monotony and danger of life at sea. The big dramatic scenes are perfectly staged: Yank's death, the revelation about Smitty and the air raid are phenomenal, and the cruel finale is a real kick in the gut.

The film has an ensemble cast in the truest sense: every actor is good but none really stand out. John Wayne, fresh off Stagecoach, gets top-billing for a tiny role: he's practically an extra with a single big scene near film's end. Thomas Mitchell has probably the biggest role, chewing scenery with reckless abandon. Ford regular Ward Bond gets a meaty role, and Ian Hunter (The Adventures of Robin Hood) makes the most of his tiny part. Mildred Natwick (3 Godfathers) has an excellent scene with Wayne as a desperate hooker. John Qualen plays an early version of the Swedish Chef caricature he'd "perfect" in The Searchers, and it's no less annoying in this incarnation. Other Ford regulars - Barry Fitzgerald, Arthur Shields, the ubiquitous Jack Pennick - populate bit parts.

The Long Voyage Home is another solid entry in John Ford's CV. Along with other films of the time (Stagecoach, Young Mr. Lincoln, The Grapes of Wrath) it shows the director at the peak of his talents.

How the West Was Won

One of the biggest and most ambitious of Hollywood's epics, How the West Was Won (1962) is excellent bravura entertainment, utilizing its unique Cinerama filming to the fullest. It's certainly impressive spectacle and a highly entertaining film, even if it's ultimately not the sum of its parts.

Divided into five chapters, the film (narrated by Spencer Tracy) tells the story of the taming of the Old West through the eyes of the Rawlings family. In 1830, Zebulon (Karl Malden) takes the family out west via the Erie Canal. Zebulon's daughter Eve (Carrol Baker) falls for fur trader Linus Rawlings (James Stewart), who saves them from a gaggle of river pirates. Two decades later in St. Louis, Eve's sister Lily (Debbie Reynolds) is a dance-hall girl who decides to go West to San Francisco. Surviving an Indian attack on the way, Lily is caught in a romantic triangle with gambler Cleve (Gregory Peck) and wagon master Roger (Robert Preston). When the Civil War breaks out, young Zeb (George Peppard) enlists in the Union Army and sees action at the bloody Battle of Shiloh, where he saves the lives of Generals Ulysses Grant (Harry Morgan) and William Sherman (John Wayne) from a Rebel deserter (Russ Tamblyn). Zeb goes west and finds himself embroiled in the contest between the Union and Central Pacific Railroads, which also provokes the Arapaho Indians. Finally, Zeb ends up with a lawman, facing off against train robbery Charlie Gant (Eli Wallach) and his gang.

Helmed by three big name directors, shot in Cinerama (the three-panel, curved format of super-ultra widescreen) and with half of Hollywood in the cast, How the West Was Won is heavy on the spectacle. The story is episodic, with five different chapters spanning the better part of a century. Despite the attempt to connect the stories - most of our protagonists are members of the same family, a recurring musical cue is feature, and Zeb features in the final three chapters - there's no real flow or narrative drive between the sections, a regrettable flaw. The movie doesn't achieve the scope required for the ostensible awe at "the taking of the West" to take hold. To be fair, the individual episodes are generally strong, well-crafted vignettes, but it's not a terribly deep film on the levels of story, character or themes. Its virtues lie elsewhere.

Henry Hathaway (True Grit) does the balance of the film, including the two best scenes: an exciting rapids scene, and Zeb's shootout with train robbers. John Ford handles the shortest episode, a brief account of the Civil War, which seems rushed and curiously underdeveloped, cribbing battle footage from Raintree County. George Marshall (Destry Rides Again) gets the "railroad" segment, a draggy, dramatically-inert segment that goes on too long. There's relatively-little difference in style, perhaps due to the format, and the movie isn't as uneven as it ought to be.

In the many dialogue scenes, the directorial styles are uniformly static. Not to worry, though, as there's plenty of spectacle to admire, from beautiful location shooting to lots of thundering action scenes: the rapids, a cast-of-hundreds Indian attack, a buffalo stampede, a running gun battle on a moving train. Even without the required Cinerama process, the movie is one hell of a ride, and rarely fails to entertain. Accompanied by an excellent Alfred Newman score, the movie is certainly exciting, and succeeds in its primary goal even when the story flags.

As with many all-star epics of the time - The Longest Day, The Greatest Story Ever Told - West assembles a huge cast of big stars and gives them all glorified bit parts. Oddly though, even the dubious thrill of star-spotting is largely diminished here, not least because the Cinerama format prevents extensive close-ups.

Some actors do manage to stand out. James Stewart and Carrol Baker have a sweet, melancholy romance in their early segment. Gregory Peck does surprisingly well against-type as a shifty gambler. Eli Wallach plays another "charming bandit" part in arguably the film's best sequence. Scene-stealers Walter Brennan and Thelma Ritter make the most of minuscule screen time, and the attentive viewer can spot Lee Van Cleef and Harry Dean Stanton in bit parts.

A few cast members stand out in a bad way. The biggest role, unfortunately, goes to George Peppard, who is stiff and uncharismatic as usual. John Wayne and Harry Morgan have an odd, poorly-written and indifferently-acted scene as Generals Sherman and Grant. Henry Fonda and Richard Widmark are uncharacteristically wooden in their comparative-large roles.

How the West Was Won may not add up to a great film on the whole, but the individual parts are just dandy. If you're looking for a lot of impressive scenery and spectacle, then this film's for you.

Mary of Scotland

Today's John Ford flick is an odd entry in the director's CV. Mary of Scotland (1936) is a rather typical Hollywood period piece/star vehicle for Katharine Hepburn. It's an interesting movie in some ways, not least the subject matter, but it's also uneven and stuffy, struggling to retain dramatic tension and casting Hepburn in a role she's ill-suited for.

Mary Stuart (Katharine Hepburn) returns from exile in France to her native Scotland, taking the throne from her duplicitous brother (Ian Keith). Mary's Catholic policies prove unpopular, particularly as reform minister John Knox (Moroni Olsen) preaches fire-and-brimstone disapproval of Mary's rule. Mary is pushed to marry the effette Lord Darnley (Douglas Walton), rather than her true love, the dashing Earl of Bothwell (Frederic March). Mary's arrival also earns the ire of Elizabeth of England (Florence Eldridge), who fears Mary's claim to the English throne. The two factions of the Scottish court clash, and the murders of Mary's secretary Rizzio (John Carradine) by one faction and Darnley by the other, Scotland descends into civil war.

Working off a play by Maxwell Anderson (also behind the superb Anne of the Thousand Days), Ford and writer Dudley Nicholls do a creditable job of keeping the complex inter-clan squabbles of Mary's court comprehensible, and the material is somewhat interesting in and of itself. But the movie moves in fits and starts, never generating much dramatic tension and only sporadically generating interest. Mary is completely passive, saintly (by Ford and Nicholls' reckoning) but uninteresting, and her fate seems avoidable rather than tragic. The film sticks fairly close to historical facts, but Nicholl's stuffy, unimaginative script will keep any but the most fervent Tudor buff uninvolved in Mary's plight. Ford's direction is competent, but aside from a few neat flourishes (particularly Rizzio's murder and the beautiful execution sequence) unremarkable and stagey.

The casting of Katharine Hepburn as Mary is downright perplexing. Kate gives the part her all, imputing Mary with gravitas and tragic dignity, but her assertive persona and acting style is ill-suited for the passive Mary, described as "a creature of passions" by the script. One can see Hepburn jumping at the part as an effort to expand her acting range, but she can't quite overcome the limitations of Mary's part and largely undercuts her characterization as a sensual, flighty woman. Someone was missing a bet in not casting her as Elizabeth.

Hepburn's supporting cast is hit-or-miss. Frederic March (The Best Years of Our Lives) is surprisingly stiff and has little chemistry with his leading lady. Florence Eldridge's catty portrayal of Elizabeth is wonderfully unique, turning the usually-regal monarch into a jealous, combative woman. Ian Keith, Moroni Olsen and get meaty supporting parts, but Ford regulars John Carradine and Donald Crisp are relegated to peripheral roles.

Mary of Scotland is worth a look for Ford and Hepburn fans, but it's far from either's best work and is more interesting than good.

The Long Gray Line

The Long Gray Line (1955) is a film for confirmed John Ford afficionados. That's not to say it isn't good or worthwhile, but it contains most of Ford's faults and foibles and isn't likely to win the director many new converts. Nonetheless, it's a fine tribute to West Point and the United States Army, and is worth watching alone for Tyrone Power's marvellous lead performance.

Marty Maher (Tyrone Power) is an Irish immigrant who shows up to work as a cook at West Point in 1898. He enlists in the Army and is assigned to Captain Keeler (Ward Bond) as a phys ed teacher and football coach. Over the next sixty years, Marty continues to work for the Academy, gaining the love and respect of cadets, and brushing shoulders with soon-to-be bigwigs like John Pershing (Milburn Stone) and Dwight D. Eisenhower (Harry Carey Jr.). Though Marty and his wife Mary (Maureen O'Hara) cannot have children, they come to see the ever-changing Corps of Cadets as a surrogate family, and the Mahers become a beloved Army institution.

The Long Gray Line contains most of what turns some film buffs off of Ford: corny slapstick humor, sappy sentimentality, loud and broad Irishness, and reverence towards the military. The movie also suffers from uneven pacing and an episodic, oft-repetitve plot. The first hour or so is broad comedy, with the movie shifting to sentimental tragedy as it goes along. The big emotional scenes are hit-or-miss, and after awhile it becomes fairly schematic: Marty experiences a tragedy or loss, considers leaving the service, and is goaded into staying. Stretch this out near two-and-a-half hours, and you have a film definitely not for all tastes.

It's hard to fault Ford's intentions, though, and his movie is a splendid tribute to the military. With the West Point setting, Ford indulges his love of ritual and to the fullest, and integrates it perfectly into the story. Marty embodies Ford's patriotism, going from ignorant immigrant to devoted soldier and paterfamilias. Ford celebrates military duty and loyalty but isn't wholly laudatory: Marty, after all, never goes near a battlefield, and experiences great losses during his time at the Point. The film unquestionably whitewashes aspects of military life, belittling Kitty's (Betsy Palmer) concerns about her son (Robert Francis) following his father into the army, but it's a shining example of old-school patriotism that's gentle rather than bellicose.

The movie succeeds or fails on the shoulders of Tyrone Power, and fortunately Power is up to the task. Like Roger Livesey's Colonel Blimp, Marty becomes the embodiment of everything good about the US Army, and remains a compelling, sympathetic protagonist throughout. Power's sensitive and nuanced performance does credit to his character, even in his sillier moments, and he keeps the potentially maudlin film afloat.

The supporting cast is more uneven. Maureen O'Hara is ill-used as a demure housewife; her early scenes as a completely silent wallflower just don't work. Ward Bond (The Searchers) is in top form and Donald Crisp (The Man From Laramie) shines. Robert Francis (The Caine Mutiny), Martin Milner, Patrick Wayne (Cheyenne Autumn) and Harry Carey Jr. (Three Godfathers) are among Marty's cadets. Peter Graves also turns up as a campus troublemaker.

The Long Gray Line is a middling entry in Ford's resume, but it's definitely worth watching for fans of the director and military buffs.

Rio Grande

The final installment in John Ford's "Cavalry Trilogy," Rio Grande (1950) is a decent enough cavalry Western, even if Ford's disinterest in the material shows. It lacks the complexity of Fort Apache and the poetic beauty of She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, but as straightforward entertainment it's solid. Perhaps most notably, it marks the first big-screen pairing of John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara, whose natural, rough-and-tumble chemistry make them one of the all-time great screen couples.

Lt. Colonel Kirby York (John Wayne) commands a cavalry regiment fighting Apaches in Arizona. He is disheartened to receive news that his son Jeff (Claude Jarman Jr.) has washed out of West Point, but is shocked to find him assigned to the regiment as a trooper. Tensions immediately boil as Apache captives escape, and York's strong-willed wife Kathleen (Maureen O'Hara) shows up, demanding that Jeff leave the army and come home. All of this is put on hold when the Apaches kidnap a group of children, and General Phillip Sheridan (J. Carrol Naish) authorizes York to launch an illegal invasion of Mexico to rescue the captives.

Rio Grande is a primarily a bill-paying job; Ford wanted to get funding for The Quiet Man and was badgered into making this by a reluctant studio. It's somewhere between the conventional narrative of Fort Apache and Yellow Ribbon's slice of cavalry life. It has a multi-faceted plot whose strands don't always work out to satisfaction: the tension between York and his son is dropped as soon as Mrs. York turns up, and subplots with Sgt. Quincannon's (Victor McLaglen) guilt over his Civil War activities and Trooper Tyree's (Ben Johnson) troubles with the law are left hanging. The Indians are of the straightforward war-whooping type, appearing when convenient to the story to get shot en masse. Calling the film cliched may be harsh, but there isn't much originality on show.

The film's most interesting facet is its exploration of the lingering after-effects of the Civil War. A subplot of Yellow Ribbon, North-South reconciliation is a major theme of Rio Grande. In a cruel irony, York was forced by General Sheridan to burn down his own home in the Shenandoah Valley, something Kathleen has never forgiven him for; she gives a frosty toast to the cavalry which seems an ironic rebuke to Celia Johnson's homily in In Which We Serve. Sergeant Quincannon agonizes over his own role in the affair, with Kathleen branding him "the reluctant arsonist." The movie ends on a wonderful note of reconciliation, as the cavalry plays Dixie for the benefit of Kathleen, the present happiness allowing the Yorks to move on.

Ford continues his habitual reverence towards military life, albeit more crudely than the previous cavalry films. Though York tells Jeff to expect a life of hardship, the film's actual content seems like an 1880's recruitment film: everybody gets to fight heroically, do cool horse stunts, save little kids, sing all day and get home for supper. The worst part are those damned politicians, who hamstring the troopers from properly fighting the Indians. Thus, in a gesture that would make Douglas MacArthur proud, Sheridan authorizes York to go on an illegal mission into Mexico (sound familiar?). Compared to the ambiguities of Fort Apache, Ford's take on military duty, frontier warfare and even international law is downright reactionary: "Why spoil the beauty of the thing with legality?"

Pitched at a straight action-adventure level, Rio Grande is good. Ford handles the action scenes with his usual aplomb: three big battles with the Indians are exciting and spectacularly filmed. The movie's cinematography is a bit more restrained than its predecessors, with even Monument Valey serving more as a backdrop than a part of the action. Victor Young's fine score is another highlight, even if the Sons of the Pioneers get one too many songs.

John Wayne is in fine form with a straightforward character. Maureen O'Hara is wonderfully fiery and gets her licks in before she and the Duke reconcile. The two play wonderfully off each other, with a powerful screen chemistry that overcomes the oft-weak scripting. Ben Johnson and Chill Wills shine in supporting roles, and Victor McLaglen's excesses are fairly in check.

Rio Grande isn't one of Ford's best films, but it's a decent enough conclusion to the Cavalry Trilogy, and a fine film in its own right.

Two Rode Together

This underseen oater is probably John Ford's most cynical Western. Coming in the midst of Ford's late-career revisionist period - right in between Sergeant Rutledge and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance - Two Rode Together (1961) is a flawed but intriguing film that throws the moral ambiguity of frontier warfare into stark relief.

Guthrie McCabe (James Stewart) is the crooked Marshal of Tuscosa, Texas, who is dragooned by friend Cavalry Lieutenant Gary (Richard Widmark) into joining him. A group of settlers has lost family members to Quanah Parker's (Henry Brandon) band of Comanches, and McCabe and Gary are assigned to bring the captives back. They are successful, bartering the release of teenaged boy Running Wolf (David Kent) and Mexican woman Elena (Linda Cristal), wife of warrior Stone Calf (Woody Strode), but the situation is complicated by the fact that two are not quite willing to return to civilization. While the half-crazed Mrs. McCandless (Jeanette Nolan) desperately believes Running Wolf is her son, Elena falls for Guthrie, but finds herself outcast by the racist settlers.

Two Rode Together borrows many plot elements and set-pieces from Ford's The Searchers (1956), but is even more bitter and cynical. The Searchers left one major question unanswered in its rush for a pseudo-happy ending: Natalie Wood's Debbie initially refused to leave the Comanche, only to apparently change her mind. The question of whether she wanted to return, so intriguingly raised earlier in the film, is dropped. Here, Ford and writer Frank Nugent confront the issue head-on, and despite several patches of broad comedy, it's certainly Ford's darkest Western.

Historically, white captives taken by Indians often didn't want to return to civilization, preferring to stay with their adopted families. Both Elena and Running Wolf are highly reluctant to rejoin white society; whether Running Wolf is even white is unclear until the tragic denouement. This isn't even the most troubling issue raised: One settler (Willis Bouchey) tells McCabe it doesn't matter if the child he's "rescuing" is his own, so long as he can shut up his wife, and the McCandlesses adopt Running Wolf out of misguided desperation. Even when Elena tries to join society, she's treated as an outcast by whites who see her as "ruined" by sleeping with a Comanche buck. Compared to the ambivalence of The Searchers and the garbled Cheyenne Autumn (1964), Ford provides a remarkably stark and negative view of frontier race relations.

The film is surprising in other areas too. Guthrie McCabe is an amusingly amoral protagonist. He's introduced copying Henry Fonda's rocking chair bit from My Darling Clementine, but he's also lazily sipping beer as his deputy (Chet Douglas) rounds up prisoners. Throughout the film he's presented as a completely amoral capitalist: "What's the price of a human life?" "Whatever the market will bear!" He negotiates a take from all Tuscosa's businesses, tries to fleece the settlers for his services, sells guns to the Comanche in exchange for captives, and tricks Stone Calf into a one-sided showdown. James Stewart makes McCabe charming and funny, but he's also an irredeemable dirtbag, and Ford gives him the perfect comeuppance in the finale.

Ford actively subverts his previous films in other ways. While previous Ford Westerns depicted the West as a "garden" where civilization is being cultivated, Two Rode Together shows Tuscosa - the product of such toil - a contemptible backwater, polished in appearance but ruled by the crooked Marshal and feisty saloon-owner Belle (Annelle Hayes). The earnest settlers, the backbone of most Ford flicks, are simply more rubes for McCabe to take advantage of, and the Cavalry Major (John McIntire) is as corruptible as McCabe. Even the usual set-pieces are subverted: while a slapstick brawl isn't out of place, the community dance is here used to highlight the settlers's racism. Few characters come off well here, and Ford makes us wonder if the pioneers's hard work was worth it.

Ford's direction is unremarkable by his usual standards; he reportedly had little interest in the film and it shows with its fairly pedestrian visual scheme. The movie has a slow, langorous pace and it takes a long time for the plot to get going; Ford allows long, lingering dialogue scenes, particularly McCabe and Gary's wonderfully frank, seemingly ad-libbled river-side discussion, a true gem. The film often veers towards comedy - though certainly less obnoxious than in most other Ford flicks - but even in its lighter moments the cynicism bleeds through. Nugent's script is near-perfect, and George Duning provides a fine score.

James Stewart is wonderfuly cast against-type: his Guthrie McCabe is not psychotic like several of his Anthony Mann protagonists, but his complete amorality is a refreshing change of pace. Richard Widmark is fine as the conflicted cavalry officer - a role he'd reprise in Cheyenne Autumn - and has a perfect rapport with Stewart. Shirley Jones and the luminous Linda Cristal (The Alamo) get well-rounded characters to play, and Annelle Hayes and John McIntire (Winchester '73) have meaty supporting roles. The usual John Ford regulars are onhand: Andy Divine, John Qualen, Ken Curtis, Harry and Olive Carey, Henry Brandon, Woody Strode, Anna Lee, Willis Bouchey, Jeanette Nolan and Jack Pennick all put in appearances.

If Two Rode Together is far from John Ford's best work, it's certainly far better than its dismal reputation suggests.

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and Sergeant Rutledge

Two more John Ford films today, each a trip into Monument Valley with the US Cavalry. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949) is a straightforward celebration of the cavalry; Sergeant Rutledge (1960) glorifies black "Buffalo Soldiers" while examining racial prejudice. Neither is Ford's best work, but both are certainly worthwhile Westerns.

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949)



Ford's follow-up to Fort Apache (1948) lacks that work's thematic depth and complexity, but is a wortwhile picture in its own right. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is a fine hymn to the US military and one of the most visually-spectacular Westerns ever. Its minor faults do not seriously harm a mostly enjoyable film.

Captain Nathan Brittles (John Wayne) is a few days away from retirement, but events elsewhere throw a spanner in the works. Custer's 7th Cavalry has recently been massacred, and Indians all over the West are uniting in preparation for all-out war. Brittles leads a patrol to try and avert war, being forced to accomodate the wife (Mildred Natwick) of his commanding officer (George O'Brien) and pretty young Olivia (Joanne Dru), who finds herself romantically pursued by Lieutenants Cohill (John Agar) and Pennell (Harry Carey Jr.). Brittles reaches his retirement, but unofficially tags along on one last mission.

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is perhaps best-viewed as a visual experience. Cinematographer Winton C. Hoch won an Oscar for his beautiful Technicolor photography, and it's extremely well-deserved. Monument Valley has never looked lovier, and at times the film bears comparison to Lawrence of Arabia and 2001: A Space Odyssey in its visual grandeur. Ford and Hoch's visual storytelling is without peer, with the beautiful crags, mesas, buttes and red dust of Monument Valley making an incredible impression. Every shot is beautifully composed, with cavalry crossing the desert, herds of buffalo and chases and skirmishes providing a rich visual treat. The final raid on an Indian camp provides an exciting climax.

As in Fort Apache, Yellow Ribbon is primarily a celebration of military life. The film has a sparse, episodic narrative, focusing on a "day in the life" of the US Cavalry, on a routine patrol through the desert that's ultimately a failure. Bad guys - not only the Indians but sleazy gun-runners - are almost inconsequential. As before, the Army is presented as a family where differences of class, race and so on are put aside for a greater good: most poignantly, a brief subplot features ex-Confederate Sergeant Tyreen (Ben Johnson) burying a former colleague (Rudy Bowman) with full Confederate honors. Dubious though it may be, this picture of military life is at least artfully expressed.

The film does have its share of faults. The story is sparse and oft-non-existent, but this is of minimal importance. The awkward love triangle is badly handled and comes off as a distraction. Most unfortunate of all, Victor McLaglen is on-hand to provide his trademark drunk Irishman schtick, and the movie features an obnoxious brawl towards the end that seems jarringly out of place. The final scene, with Brittles returning to military life, seems equally odd and somewhat unsatisfying: it has a curious (if wholly unintentional) resonnance with The Hurt Locker, of a soldier who's happy only in uniform. That film's protagonist comes back because he's off his nut; Brittles stays because, well, who'd want to leave such a perfect family?

John Wayne gives one of his best performances as Captain Brittles. As in Red River, Wayne convincingly plays a much older character and fills it with the right mixture of pride and weariness. Wayne surprisingly comes off best in the quiet moments, particularly his visits to his wife's grave and his farewell to the troopers. It's well that Wayne is so good, as the supporting cast is mostly unremarkable - even the pretty Joanne Dru doesn't come off well - but who really can complain?

Sergeant Rutledge (1960)



The product of a post-The Searchers, revisionist Ford, Sergeant Rutledge (1960) is a noble attempt at acknowledging the heroism of the all-black "Buffalo Soldiers." Mostly a good film, it unfortunately leans heavily on a trite trial structure and over-emphatic speechmaking. Problematic though it is, it's certainly more entertaining and less obnoxious than Cheyenne Autumn (1963), Ford's later attempt at correcting his portrayal of Native Americans.

Sergeant Braxton Rutledge (Woody Strode), the "top soldier" of the all-black 9th US Cavalry, is on trial for the murder of a superior officer and the rape of the latter's daughter. The evidence is mostly circumstantial, but the bigoted prosecutor (Carleton Young) seems able to prove that Rutledge committed crime. His commanding officer, Lieutenant Cantrell (Jeffrey Hunter), defends Rutledge, showing that he is a model, heroic soldier caught in an unfortunate situation. Still, Rutledge's fate seems sealed until a convenient discovery unmasks the real culprit.

Sergeant Rutledge is a noble effort at showing the role of African-Americans in taking the Old West, a sadly neglected chapter of American history. Ford is highly successful here: using the same gorgeous Monument Valley locations as Yellow Ribbon, he shows his Buffalo Soldiers as every bit the equal of their white counterparts, fighting Indians, engaging in comradely banter and being generally heroic. This squares perfectly with Ford's vision of the military as an all-inclusive melting pot, and seeing African-Americans trodding in the footsteps of John Wayne and Co. is a fitting enough tribute, though Rutledge is so idealized that his innocence is never in doubt. These sections of the film are entertaining and well-done, and aside from an over-emphatic speech or two, Ford succeeds at "setting the record straight."

Unfortunately, Sergeant Rutledge is not just a Western, but a "significant" film dealing with important social issues. Ford bookends the film with an awkward, creaky trial that smacks of low-rent Stanley Kramer, conveniently putting racial prejudice on trial with Rutledge. Besides making for a stiff and preachy drama, Ford unfortunately interjects humor into these scenes, with Billie Burke's old biddy particularly obnoxious. Some neat directoral flourishes - fades to silhouette at key moments, hard cutting to flashbacks - and fine acting help, but the overly-convenient Perry Mason-esque ending rings false. This awkward mix of preaching and humor drags down an otherwise fine Western.

Woody Strode (The Professionals) shines in his largest film role. Occasionally stiff, the statuesque Strode is nonetheless perfectly cast, and he nails his character's big scenes, particularly his emotional courtroom outburst. Strode doesn't get enough credit for helping to break Hollywood's color barrier, and this is arguably his finest hour. Nominal star Jeffrey Hunter (The Searchers) does surprisingly well with a weak character; Constance Towers (The Horse Soldiers), less so. The supporting cast is mixed: Juano Hernandez (Intruder in the Dust) acquits himself well, and Carleton Young (The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance) is solid in a larger-than-normal role, but Willis Bouchey and Billie Burke's (The Wizard of Oz) courtroom sparring is beyond annoying.

7 Women

John Ford's last film is a real head-scratcher. 7 Women (1966) is a gender-bending anti-Western, with a mostly-female cast fending off savages in 1930's China. A film that will interest auteurists and feminist-inclined critics, it doesn't live up to its interesting premise, providing a well-acted but inert drama.

Seven Christian missionaries are operating in 1930's China under the strict control of the fanatical Mrs. Andrews (Margaret Leighton). The tough American Doctor D.R. Cartwright (Anne Bancroft) arrives to help with a cholera epidemic, her brusque ways immediately aggravating the uptight missionaries. Things grow worse when a band of Mongol thugs led by Tunga Khan (Mike Mazurski) show up and take the women hostage. In an attempt to save her colleagues, Cartwright agrees to survive as Tunga Khan's concubine, plotting an ingenious revenge.

Ford's oeuvre has its share of strong female characters: Edna May Oliver in Drums Along the Mohawk, Jane Darwell in The Grapes of Wrath. But 7 Women is still an unexpected film. It has the structure and feel of a Western, save the setting, with seven very different female protagonists. The only major male character, the teacher Mr. Pether (Eddie Albert), is ineffectual, cast in a "feminine" occupation and dies in a futile gesture at reclaiming manhood (or something); his wife (Betty Palmer) survives, giving birth to a baby under siege, in an echo of Stagecoach. The movie is definitely a celebration of feminine strength, and this is its primary virtue.

One could perhaps quibble with Ford's portrayal of said women: he invites us to see at least the leads as transgendered men, with Cartwright's masculine dress and vulgar demeanor, and Andrews's implied lesbianism. Personally, however, I have little use for feminist twaddle, with its close-minded dogmas. I find Ford admirably employing an interesting cross-section of strong women. Anyone expecting a Zulu-in-drag style siege will be let down, as the women react in different ways to their predicament, forcing Cartwright to take command. The movie scores points for its brilliant ending, and perhaps the best closing line outside of The Professionals.

This feminist reading makes the movie sound a lot more interesting than it actually is. 7 Women is dull and slow for most of its length, as if Ford and writers Janet Green and John McCormack thought the premise alone would carry the film. A half-baked rivalry between Cartwright and Andrews goes nowhere, and lots of talky scenes drag down the story. The actual arrival of the Mongols is anti-climactic, and the story drifts afterwards: an off-screen rape and Cartwright's noble sacrifice provide the only real drama. The Cartwright-Andrews clash defuses as Andrews goes bananas, and the Mongols seem too dumb to be a real threat. Ford's claustrophobic, set-bound direction doesn't help either, though Elmer Bernstein's rousing score is excellent.

The movie's positive female characters are off-set by its racist supporting cast. The Chinese are mostly complacent nobodies, gratefully accepting help or fleeing Tunga Khan's thugs. The Mongol villains are monosyllabic, lusty cavemen who make Ford's portrayal of Indians look progressive; having obviously non-Asian actors - Ford regulars Mike Mazurki and Woody Strode - play them doesn't help. Ford seemed to have difficulty juggling his portrayal of minorities: he similarly ennobled African-American soldiers in Sergeant Rutledge only to demonize Native Americans.

The cast is the primary reason to watch. Anne Bancroft gives a fabulous performance: she's convincingly tough and self-reliant, and her sacrifice towards the end seems wholly germane to her character. Margaret Leighton (Under Capricorn) is excellent in the first half, only to descend into boring hysteria later on. Sue Lyon (Lolita) is under-used. Flora Robson (55 Days at Peking) and Anna Lee (Hangmen Also Die!) also stand out.

7 Women seems like it ought to be something special, as both John Ford's final film, and a movie decidedly unlike most of his work. Sadly, it ends up more a bizarre curio than anything else.

The Grapes of Wrath

John Ford's adaptation of John Steinback's The Grapes of Wrath (1940) is one of the director's most thematically-interesting films. Quite contrary to his oft-complacent Westerns, Ford expresses outrage at the plight of small farmers in Depression-era America, driven West.

Tom Joad (Henry Fonda) returns to his Oklahoma farm after serving a prison sentence. He finds that local landlords have driven his family out, and tracks them down to a relative's home. Together with Ma Joad (Jane Darwell), the rest of the family and itinerant preacher Casey (John Carradine), Tom and Co., set out on a car ride for California, hoping to find menial work. They end shuffling from work camp to work camp, brushed off by bosses, bullied by cops and shunned by Californians.

John Ford is usually pegged as a conservative director, a reductive and oversimplified view. Patriotic, pro-military and religious to a fault, Ford also cultivated liberal outrage at social injustice, anti-Communist witch hunts and treatment of racial minorities. He wasn't a socialist, of course, but a progressive populist, who saw the average citizen as the true hero of America. A conservative director would not have made The Grapes of Wrath in the pre-World War II era, when anything remotely leftist was considered subversive.

Ford's depiction of Depression-era America is at complete odds with the optimism of other films. The Okies are shuffled from place to place, each promise of work denied or unfulfilled, the American Dream proving a bitter joke. Authorities are either violent, crooked or completely indifferent to their charges, echoed even by ordinary people. Scenes in the work camps are shockingly subversive: a cop fatally wounds an old lady with a stray bullet; starving children beg for food; farmer's homes are plowed before their very eyes. In light of this stark story, the most complacent American ought to be roused to action.

The movie fudges Steinbeck's novel a bit with a vaguely happy ending, affirming that "the people" will find a way to combat the injustice. The denouement, with Joad walking alone on a desolate landscape, directly recalls Young Mr. Lincoln, setting Tom up as a future fighter of injustice. But the stark, oppressive events of the story remain in one's mind, showing that perhaps justice isn't always done in Ameirca.

Ford's direction is marvellous. Gregg Toland's striking black-and-white cinematography complements the film's desolate atmosphere; set-bound sequences mix well with real locations, and Alfred Newman's mournful score contributes wonderfully as well.

Henry Fonda does a fine job in the lead. Tom is a generally complacent character, afraid to get into trouble, but Fonda's inherent Everyman dignity makes him compelling and relatable. The supporting cast frequently steals the show. Jane Darwell is excellent as Ma Joad, tough, world-weary but optimistic. Ford regulars John Carradine and John Qualen give career-best performances; Qualen is particularly impressive, his embattled homesteader a far cry from his bumptious characters in His Girl Friday and The Searchers.

The Grapes of Wrath is an interesting movie from a director known for his allegedly pro-Establishment worldview, showing that intolerable situations make even the most complacent men and women consider Revolution.

Young Mr. Lincoln

1939 was a great year for John Ford: he turned out three classic films, including Stagecoach, Drugs Along the Mohawk, and Young Mr. Lincoln. The latter film is a pitch-perfect, poetic ode to Americana, a celebration of American democracy and one of its most revered figures.

Abraham Lincoln (Henry Fonda) is an unschooled Illinoisan who takes up law after the death of sweetheart Ann Rutledge (Pauline Moore). Lincoln finds himself the defense attorney in an extremely sticky case: two brothers (Richard Cromwell and Eddie Quillan) stand accused of murdering a farmer, but only one seems to have actually done it. Lincoln determines not only to defend the boys, but to clear them of the crime altogether.

No film director has more thoroughly defined America's past than John Ford. As in Drums Along the Mohawk, Ford eschews the "traditional" view of history, with its privileged men in wigs making history: it's the little people, the hard-working, rough-hewn frontiersmen (and women) who really shape a nation's destiny. The movie expects us to know Lincoln's historical achievements, providing only clever hints - his rivalry with Stephen Douglas (Milburn Stone), his flirtation with Mary Todd (Marjorie Weaver). Of more interest is the man behind the monument, the man haunted by personal loss (not only Ann, but most of his family), determined to do right by the truth and Constitution. In John Ford's America, justice is always done.

Ford provides a masterful directing job, lacing the film with beautifully metaphorical sequences: a well-handled fair epitomizing Ford's reverence for community, Lincoln facing down a lynch mob, the climactic storm. The courtroom scenes sparkle with wit and tension, well-crafted by screenwriter Lamar Trotti, and the twist is well-handled (if a bit obvious in retrospect). Ford establishes a distinct cinematic language, presaging his later works: Fonda leaning back on a rocking chair, like in My Darling Clementine; Alfred Newman's poignant love theme, later re-used in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. There's more than a bit of cornball humor and sentimentality, but this comes with the Ford territory. It's a cinematic poem, and realism oughtn't be a concern.

Henry Fonda gives perhaps his best performance. His Lincoln is a beautiful creation, embodying everything good about the American character: hard-working, curious, intelligent, honest and witty, driven by healthy ambition. Fonda makes the character credible, and he's simply a joy to watch. The supporting cast is good if unspectacular: Donald Meek (Stagecoach) gets a juicy supporting role as Fonda's blustering courtroom adversary; the ubiquitous Ward Bond and Jack Pennick turn up in small but important parts.

Young Mr. Lincoln is another classic John Ford film, and a must-watch for his fans.

The Duke at War: They Were Expendable and Sands of Iwo Jima

Continuing our salute to John Wayne, here are dual reviews of the World War II dramas They Were Expendable (1945) and Sands of Iwo Jima (1949). Despite not serving in the war himself, Wayne perfectly embodies the American fighting man in these two movies.

They Were Expendable (1945, John Ford)



Made in the waning days of WWII, They Were Expendable is a grim war film shorn of most genre cliches. Along with Battleground (1949), it's one of the most gritty and down-to-Earth war films ever made, shorn of preaching for or against war, implausible battlefield heroics or grating faux-"realism." Mostly, it's a simple tale of doomed men, soldiering on because it's their job.

Lt. John Brinkley (Robert Montgomery) is the commander of a naval squadron stationed on the Philippines just before the outbreak of World War II. With his squadron of PT boats, his men harrass the Japanese Navy, inflicting grevious casualties on the invaders. His second-in-command, Lt. "Rusty" Ryan (John Wayne), is wounded in action, and romances a pretty nurse (Donna Reed) while recovering. Though Brinkley and Ryan clash, they depend on each other to stay alive as a Japanese victory becomes inevitable.

They Were Expendable is a far cry from your typical John Ford movie. Gone is the bumptious, broad humor of Stagecoach and Fort Apache; instead, we're given a group of grim sailors, likeable enough but weighed down with dread and uncertainty, fighting a battle they can't win. Cliches are left by the wayside for a refreshing (if ultimately depressing) flick. Ryan's romance with sweet nurse Sandy is tastefully handled, a brief, doomed flirtation rather than an epochal romance. The ending is vaguely uplifting, but ultimately downbeat; the Philippines are lost, and most of Brinkley and Ryan's men are left behind. That General MacArthur would later "return" seems almost a moot point, a surprising attitude for a film made during the war to take.

Ford, co-star Robert Montgomery and screenwriter Frank "Spig" Wead all served in WWII, and the movie certainly benefits from their collective experience. It's filled with the requisite battles and heroics, but the quiet moments register strongest: an underage recruit toasting with a glass of milk; a Japanese singer performing My Country 'Tis of Thee as war breaks out; Ryan's touching eulogy to a dead colleague; an old man (Russell Simpson) refusing to abandon his house, waiting for the Japanese with a rifle and whiskey bottle. The movie's simple appreciation for our fighting men and women, shorn of flag-waving jingoism and melodrama, is refreshing.

If there's any criticism to be had, it's that Expendable runs a bit long in the tooth at 135 minutes, with an episodic, scattershot narrative that doesn't fully justify the length. The movie doesn't pick up the narrative drive it ought to, even though it convincingly depicts the desperation of our heroes' plight. Characterization is pretty thin, with a few exceptions; unlike the best unit pictures, few of Brinkley's squad register strongly. It's not the most sophisticated film, but it gets enough right for these to be minor flaws.

Ford's direction is impressive. Not as stylish as most of his films, it's still wonderfully expressive, with striking black-and-white photography enhancing the grim mood. The big action scenes are suitably exciting without seeming implausible, the best being a suicidal attack on a Japanese cruiser. The only incongruous note is Herbert Stohart's score, a bombastic blend of military marches that doesn't quite fit with the dreary atmosphere.

Robert Montgomery is the nominal star, but he comes off rather stiff and one-note. John Wayne, on the other hand, is excellent. He makes Ryan believably bitter, stuck in an impossible situation with a commander he doesn't like. A radiant Donna Reed would parlay her ten minutes of screen time here into stardom with It's a Wonderful Life. The supporting cast is riddled with Ford regulars, including Ward Bond, Russell Simpson and the ubiquitous Jack Pennick, all in fine form. Cameron Mitchell also turns up in a small part.

Sands of Iwo Jima (1949, Allan Dwan)



When I talk about war movie cliches, well, this is what I'm referring to. Sands of Iwo Jima is an extremely conventional, albeit well-made flag-waver: a treat for genre fans and Duke lovers, potentially a chore for others.

A squad of freshly-recruited Marines is sent to New Zealand to train for combat. They're led by the tough Sergeant John Stryker (John Wayne), who does his best to whip them into shape while hiding his inner demons. Private First Class Conway (John Agar), the son. The Marines undergo their baptism-of-fire at Tarawa, where carelessness by Pfc. Thomas (Forrest Tucker) gets two of his buddies killed. The squad regroups for the final assault on Iwo Jima, where Stryker's men prove themselves to be the best damn Marines in the world.

Sands of Iwo Jima follows the cliches of war movies in general, and the "unit picture" in particular, to the T. You've got a gaggle of colorful, diverse characters with broad, simple character traits - the guy who hates the Sergeant, the guy who screwed up and wants to redeem himself, the ethnics (Greek and Jewish here), and the twin brothers constantly slugging each other. You've got the firm-but-fair Sergeant whipping them into shape, turning them into the Swellest Squad in the Service. You've got nasty Japs stabbing our noble heroes in the back. You've even got the soldier showing off a picture of his kid in a foxhole. Throw 'em all together, add the ultimate in flag-waving (raising the Stars and Stripes on Mount Suribachi) and you've got a generic, assembly-line war movie.

To be fair, I'm probably being too harsh. There's something to be said for cliches: they are familar, and they can make an audience fell good. I don't care for mawkish, improbable scenes like Marines reading a Stryker letter in the middle of a battle, but I can enjoy an old-fashioned battle scene or male bonding as much as anyone. The final "you're not so bad" scene between Stryker and Conway is both corny and endearing, not a bad mix. At the very least, Sands is better than the dreary, dull Flags of Our Fathers, proving that more "realistic" war films aren't always better than straight fiction.

Sands of Iwo Jima works best on its own straightforward terms. Despite its cliched characters and plot structure, it's entertaining enough as a flag-waving war film, and provides the expected thrills. The battle scenes are exciting and often impressive, though both battles awkwardly insert archival footage at key moments. The Tarawa scene is suitably grim for that disastrous battle, but Iwo Jima is a glorious victory, albeit at a cost. And broadly drawn though they are, we do care about our goofy Marines as they get knocked off - the purpose of a unit picture. It delivers what it promises, and that's all it really needs.

Wayne got his first Oscar nomination for this film. His Stryker is a fairly one-dimensional Sergeant for most of the film, firm but fair, tough but caring. It's a role the Duke was born to play, and he does a fine job with it, so why complain? And to be fair, he does get a few meaty scenes: his agony at watching a comrade die a slow, painful death, and his tender meeting with a prostitute (played wonderfully by Julie Bishop) in Honolulu. The supporting cast is mostly bland, but it's the Duke's film and he carries it wonderfully.