The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) is so often quoted, parodied and reworked that it's impossible to see it completely fresh. Even casual filmgoers recognize the "stinking badges" exchange, Walter Huston's dancing prospector and climactic maniacal laughter. But John Huston's classic hasn't lost power through imitation; it's as close to perfect as a picture can get.

Down-and-out Americans Fred C. Dobbs (Humphrey Bogart) and Curtin (Tim Holt) drift through Mexico, circa 1925. They're hired in Tampico by an oil boss (Barton MacLaine) who swindles them out of wages. Dobbs and Curtin join grizzled prospector Howard (Walter Huston) to hunt for gold in the Sierra Madre. The three strike it rich, but find their discovery threatened by interloper Cody (Bruce Bennett) and bandits led by Gold Hat (Alfonso Bedoya). The trio fend off these challenges but find their own worst enemy.

Treasure of the Sierra Madre is a remarkable picture, with unique qualities obvious and subtle. Huston shot the bulk of it on location in Mexico. A few nighttime scenes were filmed on Hollywood back lots, but it's hard to tell the difference. Huston eschews stereotypes by presenting a gallery Mexican characters, from greasy bandits to friendly Indians and tough villagers. (That several scenes play in untranslated Spanish impresses, too.) Most obvious is Treasure's complete lack of romance, aside from a poignant letter-reading scene. Huston presages Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch in his exploration of male camaraderie, then undercuts it.

Adapting B. Traver's novel, writer-director Huston crafts a splendid tale that feels much shorter than 126 minutes. Ted D. McCord's expressive photography captures the sweaty, seedy atmosphere through deep focus close-ups and emotive lighting. Gold Hat's bandits provide several conventional action scenes, though even these have unique touches; for once our heroes have to reload periodically! Huston removes Curtin and Howard from the narrative, forcing Dobbs to confront his demons alone. We're robbed of a conventional denouement, Huston making the protagonists victims of a cosmic joke.

Far from a simple morality play, Treasure dissects its protagonists in painstaking detail. At first, the three men show solidarity in their work, even agreeing to murder Cody to preserve their share. How much it's necessity or cold capitalist pragmatism is open to question. But despite Howard's warnings that any of them could turn on each other, Dobbs drives their descent into madness. Howard's common sense buoys his young colleagues; Curtin mainly reacts to Dobb's bluster. Dobbs's introduced bumming money and beating up his boss; he's not a good guy driven mad by gold, but a louse itching to be a monster.

Which brings us to Humphrey Bogart, doing some of his best work. Many claim Bogart plays against type, but recall his numerous villain roles through the '30s. Even Rick Blane and Sam Spade weren't exactly angels. Bogart plays up his rough side, a grouchy cynic easily driven to psychotic paranoia. Bogart overplays some later scenes, but perhaps that's the script's fault; there's not much subtlety in Dobbs' decline. It works on a more elemental level, Bogart embodying a tragic monster with monstrous relish. 

Walter Huston won Best Supporting Actor for this performance. Huston's work plays broadly by modern standards, from his famous jig to leering mannerisms and clipped line readings. But Howard's such a fun character we don't begrudge Huston some scenery chewing. Tim Holt (Stagecoach) and Bruce Bennett's (Mildred Pierce) limited roles make good use of their stiff acting. Alfonso Bedoya (Border Incident) makes a charismatic, almost likeable villain. John Huston appears briefly as an American swindled by Dobbs; young Robert Blake is the boy with the lottery ticket.

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre really needs no defense, yet here I've blathered on anyway. Masterfully crafted and endlessly enjoyable, it's a near-flawless movie.

Jezebel

William Wyler's Jezebel (1938) is a remarkable drama. The film inevitably draws comparisons with Gone With the Wind (1939), whose lead role Bette Davis reportedly coveted. But Wyler's movie is far better than that overblown soap opera, couching its melodrama within a much darker framework.

In 1850s New Orleans, headstrong Julie Marsden (Bette Davis) courts Preston Dillard (Henry Fonda), an ambitious banker. Julie takes her insouciance towards social mores a step too far. When she arrives at a dress ball in a scarlet dress, Pres disowns her and Julie flees to Halcyon estate with her mother (Fay Bainter). A year later Pres returns from a Northern business trip, with a New York-born wife (Margaret Lindsay). Julie tries to bring Pres back by inciting arrogant bachelor Buck Cantrell (George Brent) into dueling Pres; Pres instead goes to New Orleans. Soon a yellow fever epidemic breaks out, sealing off the city. When Julie learns Pres has fallen victim she must make a painful choice.

Jezebel is a remarkable "woman's picture" that transcends most expectations. Wyler and his writers (including John Huston) make it very hard to sympathize with Julie. She flouts social conventions, marking herself through dress and attitude - behavior which only earns her contempt. In most movies we're expected to cheer for the quirky individualist. Here Julie's so insufferable we (almost) don't blame New Orleans society for their rejection. After Pres's rejection she becomes a virtual shut-in; when he returns Julie dresses in virginal white and stokes memories of their flirtation, which doesn't phase Pres in the slightest. Her deviousness turns Pres's brother Ted (Richard Cromwell) against Buck, leading to even more tragedy. Naturally, redemptive sacrifice is the only out.

Julie operates within strictures of the antebellum South, where everyone's entrapped by arcane honor codes. Jezebel's cast acts out proscribed rituals from which deviations prove disastrous. Women can be damned by wearing the wrong color dress; Pres forces Julie to endure a public humiliation at a ballroom dance. Arguments are settled by guns, like a more genteel Wild West. Yankees like Amy, and even the business-minded Pres, are scoundrels worthy of contempt; Negroes invisible servants. Arguments about slavery hint that such attitudes will entrap the South into Civil War; the plague ravaging Louisiana presages the extinction of this old order. Not exactly subtle, this registers much better than Wind's nauseating bowdlerization of "a dream remembered."

William Wyler again proves himself a masterful director. Early scenes provide ample spectacle without Technicolor, using sprawling sets, moody photography and seamless tracking shots. The plague sequences are remarkably grim; shots of New Orleans streets clogged with processions of fever victims, escorted by militia, feel positively medieval.

Bette Davis scored one of her biggest successes here, winning an Oscar and rescuing her career from doldrums. Davis makes effective use of her brassy, often-abrasive persona; for all her nastiness Julie is naive, expecting others to fall for her affectations. Davis handles a very difficult character well, finding the cutting, playful nastiness between Julie's eccentric facade - yet digging up a strain of nobility, as well. 

Henry Fonda looks impossibly boyish here, doing decent work in a thankless role. George Brent makes an unbearably pompous cad. Donald Crisp (The Sea Hawk) gets a standout role as Pres's business partner and Fay Bainter (who won an Oscar) and Richard Cromwell each give solid turns. Margaret Lindsay has the weakest role, an uncomprehending ingenue until her tragic sacrifice.

Jezebel is a solid melodrama. Worth watching alone for Bette Davis's sparkling performance, it holds up better today than... okay, let's not mention it again.

The African Queen

The African Queen (1951) was producer Sam Spiegel's big break. An Austrian expatriate not much liked by Hollywood, "S.P. Eagle" formed his own production company (Horizon Pictures) with maverick director John Huston to adapt C.S. Forester's novel in epic scale. Months of arduous location shooting in Africa produed an artistic triumph; The African Queen stands tall as an excellent adventure.

Rose Sayer (Katharine Hepburn) runs a mission in German East Africa at the outbreak of World War I. When her mission is razed and her brother (Robert Morley) killed by German askari troops, she seeks refuge with Charlie Allnut (Humphrey Bogart), a crusty Canadian sailor. Rose convinces Charlie to travel up river and destroy the Queen Louisa, a German gunboat that controls Lake Tanganyika. This is easier said then done; the two must battle storms, rapids, swampland, animals from crocodiles to leeches and German troops. And that's before they reach the lake.

The African Queen remains an impressive achievement. Location shooting was rare in 1951, and Jack Cardiff's gorgeous photography captures the sights of Africa: raucous wildlife, swirling rivers, drenching rain and steamy foliage. Huston's direction forces its audience deep into the jungle. Both protagonists are swarmed by mosquitoes and leeches, drenched with rain, clothes dissolving in the heat. Only Kate Hepburn's hairdo seems impervious. Queen presages Spiegel's collaborations with David Lean (Bridge on the River Kwai, Lawrence of Arabia), forcing its protagonists to prove themselves in a primal environment.

Queen invests its Boys Own thrills with commendable sophistication. Howard Hawks would be proud of Charlie and Rose's banter and their mutual dependence, a true pairing of equals. It's a nice change of pace in this male-dominated genre, and Huston's sharp characterization develops them in amusing ways (Allnut reluctantly swearing off gin, Rose thrilling at a run through rapids). The action scenes bristle with clever touches, as when the sun's glare distracts a German marksman. It's a perfect fantasy for grown-ups, two "ordinary people" handling a death-defying mission with cleverness rather than brawn - and falling for each other, too.

Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn inevitably dominate the film. Bogart plays a usual version of his charming cad, while Hepburn is perfect as the aged spinster-turned-adventurer, every bit as tough as Bogey. The two collaborate wonderfully, trading quips, kisses and schemes from start to finish. They're certainly among the most interesting screen couples, trading glamor for sweaty heroics.

Robert Morley (Major Barbara) appears briefly as Rosy's ill-fated brother. The German sailors are played by an interesting group of actors: Peter Bull (Dr. Strangelove), Theodore Bikel (My Fair Lady) and Walter Gotell (The Guns of Navarone).

The African Queen is certainly a highpoint in the adventure genres. With its striking direction and perfectly matched stars, it's a fun experience.

PS: Historically minded readers may be interested to learn the film's loosely based on a true story. For an in-depth account of the campaigns on Lake Tanganyika, check out Byron Farwell's The Great War in Africa.

The Maltese Falcon

It's always hard to review an undisputed masterpiece, and The Maltese Falcon (1941) is no different. What can be said except it lives up to its reputation?

Hardboiled San Francisco detective Sam Spade (Humphrey Bogart) gets approached by a mysterious Ms. Wonderlay (Mary Astor) seeking to save her sister from a jilted lover. This seemingly routine case results in the death of Spade's partner Archer (Jerome Cowan), ensnaring Spade in a complicated treasure hunt. Turns out Wonderlay is really Brigid O'Shaughnessy, an associate of bumbling crook Kaspar Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet), who's obsessively pursuing the legendary Maltese Falcon - a jewel-encrusted statue of 16th Century vintage.

The prototypical film noir, The Maltese Falcon had a number of strikes against it. It's the third adaptation of Dashiel Hammet's novel, after a mediocre 1931 version and a forgettable comedy with Bette Davis. Big Warner Brothers star George Raft passed on the lead, resulting in seedy screen gangster Humphrey Bogart's casting as Sam Spade. Finally, of course, it was helmed by John Huston, an ace screenwriter (Juarez, Sergeant York) but directorally green. Despite all of this, Falcon is near-perfect in execution, with all the right elements - perfect cast, skilled director, surprisingly edgy content - coming together for a masterpiece.

Perhaps because of its B-picture origins, Falcon breaks the studio mould in every way. Sam Spade is lowliest of cads, a self-serving creep who has no compunction about bossing around thugs ("When you're slapped, you'll take it and like it"), cheating his partner (he's carrying on with Archer's wife (Gladys George)) and abusing women. Brigid sets the standard for a half-century of femme fatales, willing to lie, bed and kill unsuspecting men to pursue her goals. The villains are portrayed as barely-coded homosexuals, with Joel Cairo (Peter Lorre) toting a scented handkerchief and chewing on the nob of his cane. There's only the faintest whif of a romance and comic relief is incidental: the story is resolutely blunt and straightforward without the expected Hollywood frills.

Falcon is one of the greatest directoral debuts ever, with John Huston showing a natural talent that served him for nearly fifty years. Arthur Edeson's oppressively black-and-white photography and Thomas Richards's expressionist montages create an appropriately seedy, foreboding atmosphere. Huston's script is the perfect mixture of clipped dialogue and brisk story structure: long, involved dialogue scenes fly by, allowing Robert M. Haas's cramped sets to take on a life of their own.

Humphrey Bogart easily shrugged off his two-bit hood persona to become one of Hollywood's greatest icons: cynical, selfish, violent, yet with some scruples underneath. Bogart's rough around the edges charm is perfect for Spade, making him a complete jerk yet perversely likeable. It's a treat to watch Spade constantly outwitting dumb cops, fast broads and tough criminals, a master poker player in all situations. Bogart's had more complex roles but he was never better.

The supporting cast is no less impressive. Mary Astor (Act of Violence) is appropriately sensual, delicate and tough at turns, giving only the faintest hint of the conniving schemer within. Deceptively suave Sydney Greenstreet and effeminate Peter Lorre make iconic villains: both would reteam with Bogart in Casablanca. Lee Patrick (Vertigo) is wonderful as Spade's tough-as-nails secretary. Elisha Cook Jr. (Shane) gets an early role as Gutman's wimpy henchman, and Barton MacLane and (who else?) Ward Bond play the cops harrassing Spade.

The Maltese Falcon is simply one of the greats. There's only so much you can say about a film with seventy years of critical plaudits, and it speaks for itself anyway.

The Man Who Would Be King

Among the last of the old-fashioned adventure films, John Huston's The Man Who Would Be King (1975) is a boatload of fun. An adaptation of a Rudyard Kipling story, King is a perfect mixture of traditional irreverence and post-modern cynicism, and its director and larger-than-life stars invest the story with wit, charm and muscular verve.

India at the height of the British Raj. A pair of ex-soldiers, Freemasons, vagabonds and petty crooks - Daniel Dravot (Sean Connery) and Peachy Carnahan (Michael Caine) - graduate from petty blackmail and gun-running to a far more ambitious scheme: to trek to distant Kafiristan, "land of two and thirty idols," establish their own private empire and amass a mighty fortune. They persuade an incredulous Rudyard Kipling (Christopher Plummer), a fellow Freemason, to help set their scheme in motion. The duo miraculously make it to Kafiristan, and begin playing local tribes against one another to advance their own ends. After a "miraculous" battlefield incident, Dravot is mistaken for the reincarnation of Alexander the Great, and is instated as a living God in the holy city of Sikandergul. Dravot and Carnahan are only too happy to oblige, but their plan goes awry when Dravot starts believe he is Alexander.

Huston's film is an interesting companion piece to John Milius's The Wind and the Lion, released the same year with the same star by the same studio (Huston even cameos in the latter). While Milius all but endorses imperialism, Huston casts a more cynical eye on "the White Man's Burden." Danny and Peachy's operation serves as a textbook primer for aspiring imperialists: play on a country's internal divisions, usurp local customs, establish yourself on top and rob your subjects blind. Of course, their scheme ultimately unravels as Danny dreams of building Kafiristan into a modern state. His defying the local Gods and marriage to an unwilling "mortal" (Shakira Caine, wife of Michael) turn away the credulous but suspcious natives: however good the intentions, some cultures don't want to be "civilized," especially by arrogant outsiders with little respect for them.

However, The Man Who Would Be King is no anti-imperial screed. Huston keeps his tongue firmly in cheek, cheerfully reviving the matinee fun of Gunga Din with dashing heroes, exotic locales and rousing action scenes. The casual racism of '30s epics (and Kipling's own work) is played for laughs: audiences uncomfortable with such movies will find this playful subversion a treat. Our heroes are a marvellous pair of charming rogues, charismatic and cunning, endlessly chipper ("If a Greek can do it, we can do it!"), devious and greedy yet heroic in their own way. Aided by an endlessly witty and quotable script (not to mention Sean Connery and Michael Caine), Danny and Peachy earn our affection, if not our admiration. It may not be high art, and its narrative is a bit simplistic at times, but as well-crafted, intelligent escapism King hard to beat.

The movie is beautiful to look at. Morocco is a more-than-adequate stand-in for Central Asia and Huston gives it a perfect sense of scope, with its heroes trekking through crowded Indian slums, arid desert and freezing mountains. The pacing is a bit uneven: Huston is content to linger on exposition and spectacle while turning long stretches of action into elliptical montages. This is a minor complaint all things concerned, however. Maurice Jarre contributes a fine score, more understated than much of his work but capturing the right note of high adventure.

Sean Connery and Michael Caine are a dream pair: each are at the top of their game, comporting themselves with pitch-perfect chemistry, charm and wit. For Connery in particular, it's a career high-water mark: between this and The Wind and the Lion, he was finally able to shed the James Bond persona and become a star in his own right. Christopher Plummer (The Night of the Generals) is a spot-on Kipling though he has little to do with the main story. Saeed Jaffrey (A Passage to India) essays a charming supporting role as the protagonists' Gurkha sidekick.

When it comes to 1975 adventure films starring Sean Connery, I probably prefer The Wind and the Lion for sentimental reasons. But it's hard to argue with The Man Who Would Be King, which stands on its own as a fine entry in a long-lost genre.

Juarez

William Dietrle's 1939 epic Juarez is a wonderful, well-preserved period drama. At first glance, it's a typical, musty old Hollywood biopic, but beneath the surface lies an intriguing story with really smart (and still very pertinent) things to say about imperialism, democracy, revolution and geopolitics. Surprisingly, the film's emotional anchor is not in Paul Muni's rather stiff portrayal of the title character, Mexican patriot Benito Juarez, but its portrayal of the hapless Emperor Maximilian (Brian Aherne), an improbably naive and progressive nobleman used as a pawn in France's imperial ambitions.

In 1864, French Emperor Napoleon III (Claude Rains)'s plans of establishing an empire in Mexico are going awry, facing fierce resistance from Benito Juarez's (Paul Muni) guerillas. At the suggestion of his cunning wife (Gale Sondergaard), Napoleon appoints Austrian nobleman Maximilian Emperor of Mexico, using a fake plebiscite to put a respectable face on his venture. Maximilian and his beautiful wife Carlota (Bette Davis) receive great acclaim, and Juarez's cause seems lost due to military defeat, dissent within his own ranks, and Maximilian's plans for liberal reform. However, Juarez switches to guerilla tactics, confounding Maximilian's forces, and more importantly, the United States threatens to intervene in Mexico, causing Napoleon to withdraw his troops - leaving Maximilian and his loyalists in the lurch.

For a movie made in 1939, Juarez has a lot of interesting and useful things to say about imperial geopolitics. The movie makes some overt parallels with the then-growing European crisis - the power-mad, mustachioed Napoleon is channelling Adolf Hitler - and some of the movie's lectures on the virtue of democracy are a bit tedious, but overall, Dieterle and screenwriters John Huston (!), Aenas MacKenzie, and Wolfgang Reinahrdt create a very intelligent film that examines both sides of the imperialist coin. Although it venerates both Juarez and Maximilian, it somehow avoids a conflict of interest by acknowledging a simple fact: both men have good intentions, but Juarez, sticking up for his own country, is clearly in the right. As Gandhi said, any people would prefer their own bad government to the good government of an alien power.

While Juarez himself is a reverential figurehead, idolizing Abraham Lincoln and reciting noble platitudes about the justice of democracy, Maximilian is a wonderfully-drawn character. Maximilian and his wife are improbably earnest; they are genuine progressives who think they are doing right, and certainly their intentions of liberalizing the country are noble. (Compare this portrayal to George Macready's scheming, backstabbing Maximilian in Vera Cruz.) Nonetheless, they are ornamented stalking horses for imperialism, however noble their intentions; that they, too, were deceived into taking the throne (by a rigged election) matters little. The charade is doomed from the start; only a small cotiere of military leaders and conservatives support the regime, and most of these abandon Maximilian when the going gets tough.

It's hard to think of a contemporary scenario particular to the film's events (maybe South Vietnam), but its portrayal of a conquered country seething with unrest, a sanguine guerilla war with premature declarations of victory, the well-meaning but ineffectual leader propped up by foreign bayonets, and an occupying power withdrawing through political pressure, will certainly resonnate with modern viewers.

Dieterle provides strong direction; he handles the movies action scenes adequately, but does a great job with his cast and the larger scenes of the film - an intimate drama with enough scope to keep it going. The script is perfectly paced and generally well-written - only a few of Juarez's civics lessons come off a bit flat. The movie has gorgeous art direction, and wonderfully expressive cinematography courtesy of Tony Gaudio - particularly in the later sections, where Carlotta begins to go mad under pressure. Erich Wolfgang Korngold provides a dramatic, expressive score to the proceedings.

Paul Muni's performance as the title character is fairly stiff; he's mostly a figurehead for Mexican democracy and self-determination, though he does have a great scene where he single-handedly faces down a treacherous lieutenant. Brian Aherne does a great job as the doomed idealist Maximilian, bringing great dignity and gravity to a much-reviled political figure. Bette Davis is equally impressive - beautiful, ambitious, fiercely devoted to her husband - as the tragic Carlotta. Claude Rains gives a ferocious villian performance, and the supporting cast couldn't be better, with fine turns from John Garfield, Gale Sondergaard, Louis Calhern, Joseph Calleia, Donald Crisp and Walter Kingsford.

Juarez is a fine film that hasn't dated a bit in its exploration of imperialism. It still holds remarkably well seventy years later, and is definitely worthy of more attention than it's gotten.

The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean

We shall end August with another John Milius effort - this time his collaboration with legendary director John Huston (The Maltese Falcon, Treasure of the Sierra Madre). The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean (1972) is a colorful, episodic revisionist Western that has the makings of a great film but can't quite achieve take-off vleocity. Perhaps it's the director, the script, the plodding pace, the nonexistent plot full of digressions, but the movie just isn't the sum of its parts. Too bad, as it has the makings of a great Western; all it needed was better execution.

Roy Bean (Paul Newman) is a two-bit outlaw who arrives at a West Texas outpost, narrowly escaping death at the hands of some sneak thieves. Bean cuts a swath through the local gutter trash, shacks up with a pretty Mexican girl (Victoria Principal) and establishes himself as the "Law West of the Pacos" - a self-appointed judge who rules over a patch of West Texas with a huge arsenal, a lawbook, a gang of crooks-turned-lawmen, and his bizarre love for New York actress Lillie Langtry (Ava Gardner). Bean and his men effectively dispense the Judge's peculiar brand of justice and build up the town of Vinegaroon, but sleazy Eastern businessman Frank Gass (Roddy McDowell) arrives and slowly undermines Bean's authority, ultimatley booting him out. Twenty years later, Gass has turned the town into a den of depravity and corruption - and Bean, his old gang and daughter Rose (Jacqueline Bisset) strap on six guns to beat Gass at his own game.

Reading over the plot, and looking at the talent involved, one would think the success of Roy Bean is all but assured. Indeed, in parts, the film is brilliant. There are individual set pieces that soar - Bean's introductory scene, his encounter with a wandering preacher (Anthony Perkins), the summary execution of a vagrant (Neil Summers) who shoots a poster of "Miss Lillie", a showdown with psychotic outlaw Bad Bob (Stacey Keach). Milius's dialogue, as with the far-better Jeremiah Johnson, is appropriately rustic and colorful, with lots of great quotes; the art direction is fine and Maurice Jarre contributes a lively score. The movie's atmosphere is playfully irreverent, sending up many a Western cliche, and the film is certainly fun up to a point. However, despite all of its positive attributes, the movie repeatedly drops the ball.

The movie's biggest failings are that it can't decide on its tone, and the narrative is lost in a series of needless digressions. It has the look and feel of a gritty Peckinpah or Leone Western, but incorporates the cutesiness of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - and ultimately it fails as both. An episodic plot would be fine but the film doesn't pull it off; there's no real rhythym, rhyme or reason for development of scenes. The scenes with Bean's pet bear are just silly - particularly an asinine musical interlude reminiscent of Butch Cassidy. The bit with Bad Bob is amusing but arrives curiously late in the film, and nothing comes of it. The would-be mythic ending, with Bean and his old colleagues smiting crooked modern business, is a good (if obvious) idea that falters in execution. And the coda with Lillie visiting Bean's old place is just lame. The good parts of the film occur moment by moment, and never amount to a great film.

Paul Newman carries the film, giving a strong, pitch-perfect performance as Bean, the gruff, vulgar and violent yet curiously romantic man. The distinguished supporting cast is mostly reduced to cameos, some effective, some not. Victoria Principal is lovely and vibrant as Bean's love interest. Roddy McDowell seems out of place but comes off well-enough as the sleazy lawyer who undermines Bean's power; coming off less well is Jacqueline Bisset as Bean's daughter. Ava Gardner's cameo is quite a let-down after a movie's worth of build-up; Stacey Keach has fun as an albino gunslinger but he's in the movie for all of two minutes. Anthony Perkins gives a memorable one-scene performance as an incredulous preacher who stumbles across Bean. Director Huston comes off well in a small but colorful role, but Tab Hunter and Anthony Zerbe are wasted. Better are the bit actors like Roy Jenson, Steve Kanaly, Matt Clark, Bill McKinney and Ned Beatty, who make an impression despite remaining in the background for most of the film. Like Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (which it strongly resembles in its langourous pace and episodic, scattershot narrative) it enlists a top and gives them next to nothing to do.

The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean is a flawed, sporadically-interesting movie that never quite congeals into a coherent whole. There are great scenes and ideas that stand out on their own, but Huston and Milius can't quite make it work.