Spaghetti Comedies: Seven Guns for the MacGregors/Life is Tough, Eh Providence?

As long as there have been Spaghetti Westerns, there have been spoofs. 1964 saw not only A Fistful of Dollars but Two Gangsters in the Wild West, a comedy starring the popular duo Franco and Ciccio. As the genre repeated itself to the point of exhaustion, parodies proliferated. Many sent up genre tropes, but too many fell back on the slapstick and flatulence formula popularized by Terence Hill and Bud Spencer. Not that audiences cared: They Call Me Trinity and Trinity is Still My Name became Italy's highest-grossing films of all time.

This article considers two of the form's best examples. Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1966) is less comedy than playful romp, and all the better for it. Life is Tough, Eh Providence? (1972) bites off more than it can chew, but generates laughs through sheer absurdity. Those seeking an alternative to Trinity and Bambino's fart parade should check them out.

Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1966, Franco Giraldi)

Leone protege Franco Giraldi directed this early comic Spaghetti. Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1966) provides a lighthearted atmosphere, contrasting with the genre's cynical ultraviolence. It's an enjoyable romp, short on plot but highly entertaining.

The MacGregor clan are Scottish immigrants who make rough-housing a way of life. Early on the family's elder members repulse a raid led by Miguel (Fernando Sancho), a bumbling bandit. The seven younger MacGregors pursue the bandits, who've murdered Perla''s (Perla Cristal) family. Gregor MacGregor (Robert Woods) acts as leader, infiltrating Miguel's gang and finds crooked Santillana (Leo Anchoriz) pulling the strings. The MacGregors usurp Santillana's planned robberies, leading to a bloody showdown.

Seven Guns for the MacGregors gets points for originality, at least. The Scottish characters provide eccentric color, though the effect is decidedly odd. There's something to be said for the surrealism of Italo-Spanish actors dubbed into English with broad Scottish brogues. Not to mention Ennio Morricone's faux-Celtic title ballad, sung in Glasgow-by-way-of-Rome accents!

Fortunately, MacGregors offers much more than unintentional silliness. Girardi goes for good-natured goofiness rather than broad gags. One funny bit has Gregor faking a gunfight with his brothers with Miguel's bandits. In another effective scene, a straight-laced banker says he's never had so much as playing a criminal! The movie plays off genre tropes (especially Manco's shenanigans in For a Few Dollars More) but remains its own work rather than a parody.

Girardi mixes the playfulness with excellent action scenes. The movie opens with an exciting siege, the elder MacGregors using a crank-fired gun rack and a swivel gun named Queen Anne to repel Miguel's bandits. Girardi matches this with several full-blown bar brawls and a finale which cleverly inverts the opening. But MacGregors retains an edge, as Santillana proves his psycho credentials dragging captured enemies through bonfires. It's tongue-in-cheek but serious enough to invest viewers.

Robert Woods makes a stiff but appealing hero. He's more Giuliano Gemma than Clint Eastwood, a straight-laced hero with guile and sardonic humor. Fernando Sancho plays another boorish bandito, but he's overshadowed by the sadistic Leo Anchoriz. That the other Macgregors are fairly nondescript provides a minor damper on a breezy, surprisingly fun flick.

Life is Tough, Eh Providence? (1972, Giulio Petroni)

This oddity came much later in the Spaghetti cycle. Giulio Petroni's associated with darker fare like Death Rides a Horse, so a picaresque comedy is a marked turn. Life is Tough, Eh Providence? is more funny in moments than the whole, but Tomas Milian's clever Charlie Chaplin impression makes it worthwhile.

Bounty hunter Providence (Tomas Milian) hunts the Hurricane Kid (Gregg Palmer) across the Old West, capturing him time and again, only to see the crafty outlaw escape. During their travels the duo match wits with a duplicitous saloon girl (Janet Agren), a rabble of Southern renegades and assorted riffraff. The two team up when they discover crooked Sheriff (Maurice Polli) has conned them out of money.

Providence impresses with its go-for-broke style. There's plenty of slapstick violence, with Providence clobbering villains with umbrella and pool cues, along with more conventional action like a thrilling stagecoach chase. Nor does Petroni shy away from playful anachronism. Early on, when Hurricane disguises himself as Providence, a criminologist sees through the ruse by staging an Old West trivia game. When Providence isn't slugging villains or chattering like a squirrel, he engages in headscratching non-sequitirs. "My mother may not have been all she should, but I pay my taxes," he assures Hurricane.

With its wacky humor and nonexistent plot, Providence is alternately funny and cringe-worthy. Two of the movie's big set pieces - the encounter with Confederate soldiers and especially the long pool game - drag without generating many laughs. Indeed, the repetitive cartoon fights and Looney Tunes-inspired sight gags quickly grow old. Petroni does avoid the scatology of the Trinity films, save an idiotic moment where Hurricane kills a river full of fish with B.O. Providence's style of humor plays better in small doses than at feature length; fortunately, at 95 minutes it doesn't overstay its welcome.

Tomas Milian keeps Providence afloat with a spirited turn. The intense actor lets loose in a role that indulges every ham antic imaginable. Besides his Little Tramp garb and mustache, Milian giggles girlishly, imitates animals (sporting), cold-cocks a villain with his hat brim and sings a romantic ballad. Gregg Palmer makes a decent foil and Janet Agrin plays a crafty femme fatale, but it's Milian's show all the way.

Life is Tough, Eh Providence? earns a cautious recommendation. It's too repetitive to be a classic, but one respects Petroni's overreaching absurdity. Milian revived the character for an even wackier sequel: Here We Go Again, Eh Providence? (1973)

Billy the Kid Versus Dracula

Abraham Lincoln may have tangled with vampires, but the Old West's most notorious outlaw beat Honest Abe to the punch. Prolific B Movie director William Beaudine (Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla) teamed Billy the Kid and Count Dracula in a genre-bending showdown.

Billy the Kid (Chuck Courtney) outlaw days, working on the Double Barb-B ranch and wooing pretty Betty (Melinda Plowman). But when Betty's uncle (John Carradine) turns up, things. Turns out the Uncle is really Count Dracula, with less-than-pure intentions towards his so-called niece. With the help of a crusty doctor (Olive Carey) and a German immigrant couple (Virginia Christie and Walter Janovitz), Billy seeks to foil the vampire.

At just 73 minutes, Billy the Kid versus Dracula contains more cliches per minute than your average summer blockbuster. Beaudine provides shootouts, saloon brawls, stagecoach chases and bloodthirsty Indians for the Western crowd. Horror fans can relish, erm, a bat on a string and wacky theremin music. Beaudine's inverse auteurism unites bad movie fans of all colors.

The movie's mindboggling incompetence can't help but be endearing. Carl K. Hittleman provides laughably overripe dialogue, as when Dracula calls Carey a "backwoods female pill-slinger." Besides the pathetic bat effect, Beaudine symbolizes Dracula's hypnotic powers by having Carradine goggle with red light splashed on his face. After burning through the expected plot points, Billy climaxes in a way no sensible person would expect.


John Carradine played Dracula so many times he could have sleepwalked through this movie. Instead Carradine opts for scenery chewing, boggling his eyes and growling angrily like a tiger with the slightest provocation. Chuck Courtney makes a bland Billy and Melinda Plowman provides only generic prettiness; against these squares, we're definitely rooting for Carradine. Olive Carey (The Searchers) gets big laughs as a grouchy frontier doctor ("I don't like the looks of this!" she deadpans over a vampire-bitten corpse). Character actors Roy Barcroft, Bing Russell, Virginia Christie and Harry Carey Jr. make brief appearances.

Billy the Kid Versus Dracula provides a treasure trove for bad movie fans. And unlike Cowboys and Aliens, it lives up to its magnificent title. What more can you ask for?

Groggy On Moviepilot: The Twenty Best Spaghetti Western Titles

Groggy's put his recent Spaghetti Western obsession to good use by publishing this article for Moviepilot: The Twenty Best Spaghetti Western Titles. Relish some of the most ridiculous (or awesome?) titles in movie history, served with cheap sarcasm.

Note that I'm mainly commenting on the titles of the Spaghettis in question, not the movies themselves. I haven't seen several of them. But if you know how to see And They Smelled the Strange, Exciting, Dangerous Scent of Dollars, let's hear it!

The Singer Not the Song

The Singer Not the Song (1961) is a definite oddity. Roy Ward Baker's quasi-Western frequently gets tagged with homoeroticism - and with Dirk Bogarde swaggering about in shiny leather pants, it's hard to ignore. Mainly though it's portentous, talky and dull.

Father Michael Keogh (John Mills) travels to Quantana, a remote Mexican village. He clashes with Anacleto (Dirk Bogarde), a sadistic, God-hating bandit who effectively runs the town. Anacleto starts killing locals to hasten Keogh's departure, foiling the Police Captain's (John Bentley) efforts to arrest him. Anacleto grows fascinated by Keogh, saves his life and even contemplates converting. But their mutual affection for troublemaker Locha (Mylene Demongoet), and Anacleto's evil nature, make renewed conflict inevitable.

Based on Audrey Erskine-Lindop's novel, The Singer Not the Song is a pretentious mess. It vaguely resembles John Ford's The Fugitive (1947), another South of the Border religious allegory. But Baker's boring direction lacks Ford's artistry, shooting Spanish locations in pretty but flat Technicolor. Too much overripe dialogue slows things to a deadening crawl. Even the climactic action scene is a yawner, closing with painfully explicit Christ imagery. Of course, Christ didn't die groping a leather-clad gaucho in the dust, so the analogy isn't perfect.

What's Baker on about, exactly? He and writer Nigel Balchin don't bother making sense. Singer takes place in the modern day yet characters dress like Old West extras, some even toting Winchester rifles. We're told that Anacleto controls the town, yet with three scabby henchmen he doesn't seem much of a threat. All his evil actions occur off-screen; the meanest thing we witness is sabotaging Keogh's breaks. Bush league pranks, surely, for a man representing Evil Incarnate.

Singer gets so wrapped up in allegory it lacks even internal logic. We can almost understand why Keogh wants to convert Anacleto, but what does the latter see in the priest? Anacleto reforms, or pretends to, until affection for Locha drives him back to the dark side. Keogh's briefly tempted by Locha, but is so upright he's not even a good foil. The last act attempts to juxtapose Christian forgiveness with temporal righteousness - as if denouncing a mass murderer is hypocritical! Singer manages the neat trick of being hamfisted and incomprehensible.

John Mills's role plays to his weaknesses, namely woodenness masked as rectitude. Instead of seeming steadfast, Mills comes off constipated. Dirk Bogarde relishes his camp villain, a character the script doesn't even try to make credible. (One wonders if Giulio Questi saw this before making Django Kill.) Laurence Naismith (A Night to Remember) outdoes them both with laughable scenery chewing. Mylene Demongoet just sits there looking pretty, while John Bentley is a stiff stooge. 

I'd call The Singer Not the Song a camp classic, but that implies there's fun to be had. Despite the weird premise and good cast, Singer is garbled and unbelievably boring.

The Great Silence

Sergio Corbucci produced one of the best Spaghetti Westerns with The Great Silence (1968). Notorious for its bleak ending (Christopher Frayling claims a contemporary viewer was so incensed he fired a pistol at the theater screen!), its stylishness and creativity elevate it above most Spaghettis.

Bounty killers led by the psychotic Loco (Klaus Kinski) ravage isolated Snowhill, Utah. Their only opposition is Silence (Jean-Louis Trintigant), a mute gunslinger with a Mauser Broomhandle who sides with Loco's victims - a band of starving outlaws holed up in the mountains. One outlaw's widow (Vonetta McGee) hires Silence to kill Loco. The Sheriff Barnett (Frank Wolff) arrives in Snowhill, determined to reestablish law and order. But Silence and the Sheriff find handling Loco a tough proposition. 

Corbucci shot most of Silence in Italy's Dolomite Mountains, using some Doctor Zhivago-esque trickery for the town scenes (reportedly shaving cream was employed!). He uses the setting to great effect: the snow storm isolates the town and helps drive the story, as when Barnett's uncovered pistol freezes. You can count the number of snow-covered Westerns on one hand (Day of the Outlaw? Jeremiah Johnson?), and photographer Silvano Ippoliti makes Silence a sight to behold. Helped by Ennio Morricone's somber score, it's a genuinely beautiful film.

Silence matches its unconventional setting with a devastating genre deconstruction. Silence himself pushes the Western hero to near-comic extremes: Clint Eastwood and Franco Nero barely speak, so why not make Silence mute? The character still maintains a kind of chivalry; he goads villains into drawing first, and won't shoot wounded men. Trying that on Loco, he gets roughed up for his trouble. Similarly, Sheriff Barnett is less Wyatt Earp than Old West General Gordon, sent by spineless politicians to "manage" an insolvable situation singlehanded. These conventional protagonists prove thoroughly inadequate to save Snowhill.

Similarly, Corbucci mocks the idea of frontier justice. For one, the outlaws are harmless tramps; the film implies they're persecuted Mormons. Loco receives sanction from crooked Judge Pollicutt (Luigi Pistilli), who runs Snowhill as a personal fiefdom. Utah's Governor (Carlo D'Angelo) is mainly interested in reelection; sounding a noble call for equality, he asks an aide to note it for his next speech! With capital and killers working hand in glove, "justice" becomes frontier feudalism.

In his inimitable fashion, Corbucci saturates Silence with grisly violence. Silence's favorite trick involves shooting the thumbs off bad guys so they can't shoot back. Barnett's welcomed into town when the hill outlaws kill and eat his horse. One villain gets his face scorched by burning coals. But it's all prelude to the finale, where Loco goads Silence into an impossible showdown. It's Silence's chivalry against Loco's monstrous pragmatism, the outcome preordained.

Jean-Louis Trintignant (The Conformist) is interesting casting, channeling his cerebral intensity into a wordless gunfighter. But Klaus Kinski steals the show; he makes Loco more cocky schemer than cackling lunatic, but no less frightening. Vonetta McGee gives a strong performance: unlike most Spaghetti women, she's a tough cookie whose actions drive the plot. Luigi Pistilli's (For a Few Dollars More) officious Pollicutt contrats with Kinski's amorality. Frank Wolff (Salvatore Giuliano) plays Barnett broadly, undercutting his tragic arc.

The Great Silence isn't a perfect movie. The plot's a little rough around the edges, with the outlaws' role never fully established and some passages unnecessary (the Silence-Pauline romance). But its aesthetic beauty, good acting and grim atmosphere make for an experience that's decidedly different from most Spaghetti Westerns.

The Sabata Trilogy

Director Giancarlo Parolini scored a huge hit with If You Meet Sartana, Pray for Your Death (1968). But Parolini fell out with producer Aldo Addobbati, who replaced Parolini with Giuliano Carnimeo on four Sartana sequels. Parolini joined Sergio Leone's producer Alberto Grimaldi, eager to launch Lee Van Cleef in a franchise of his own. Thus, Sabata ("the Man With the Gun-sight Eyes") was born.

Sabata shifts the Spaghetti Western away from its gritty roots towards live action cartoon. It's tempting to see Sabata as a riff on Van Cleef's Colonel Mortimer from For a Few Dollars More, with an even snazzier arsenal and higher body count. Parolini matches this fantasy gun play with bizarre style choices and outlandish characters (circus performers, booby traps, burlesque humor) like a B-movie Fellini. The trilogy plays like a mix of Wild, Wild West and Roger Moore's James Bond flicks.

Like all Spaghettis, Sabata is an acquired taste. Those attuned to this quirky sub-genre should find plenty to enjoy.

Sabata (1969)

Sabata was my first non-Leone Spaghetti Western. Inured to that director's operatic, sprawling style, I wasn't prepared for Sabata's offbeat goofiness. Ten years and dozens of Spaghettis later, I'm better placed to judge. In many ways it's an essential genre work: violent, overwrought, tongue-in-cheek - and deliriously entertaining.

One night in Daugherty City, several criminals rob an Army payroll. Black-clad gunslinger Sabata (Lee Van Cleef) kills the robbers and returns the loot, but discovers there's more to the robbery. Turns out local businessman Stengel (Franco Ressel) arranged the robbery as part of a complicated land-grabbing scheme. Sabata defeats a seemingly endless parade of henchmen, forcing Stengel to turn to Banjo (William Berger). Banjo's an old friend of Sabata, but his motives are in doubt until the last reel.

Parolini (credited as "Frank Kramer") adopts the same approach as Sartana: a gunfight every five minutes, a thin plot full of treachery and backstabbing, eccentric villains and a black clad hero sporting a deadly arsenal. One character even calls Sabata a pallbearer, presumably a dig at Addobbati and Co. Besides the catchy title tune, Marcello Gambioni's music evinces an improbable meld of styles: bluegrass, fuzz guitar, harpsichords, even calypso! It's ridiculous yet endearing.

Sabata's twisty plot is predictable enough, but Parolini delights in unconventional touches. The protagonist wields a four-barreled derringer concealing additional rounds in its stock - and a specially-made Winchester that shoots over a mile. Stengel engages rivals in a bizarre pin-hole shooting game, carrying a dart-firing cane in reserve. Banjo conceals a rifle in his instrument of choice. Numerous booby traps, acrobatic tricks and explosives contribute to the mayhem.

Banjo... You can try to talk, but he don't give a pluck!

Parolini burns through creative gadgets, but doesn't know when to stop. He replays Rio Bravo's dynamite shooting gag about a dozen times, a convenient way to up the body count. The nonsense with acrobat sidekick Alley Cat (Neil Jordan) gets old fast. He also dallies on inconsequential asides. Assassin Sharkey (Marco Zuanelli) gets an extended introductory vignette, yet he's dead within 20 seconds of meeting Sabata. Banjo has his own vendetta which becomes an inconsequential subplot. These episodes merely pad out the run time. 

Lee Van Cleef makes an iconic Western hero. He's an intense but likeable antihero, with enough piercing glares, fancy gun-slinging and off-hand sarcasm to disarm opponents and viewers alike. It's not as meaty as his Leone characters or The Big Gundown, but perfect match for his persona.

William Berger essentially reprises his Sartana character, a trickster playing both sides. Dressed and coiffed like a hippie, he nonetheless proves a formidable rival. Less endearing is the obnoxious Ignazio Spalla, who'd play similar characters in the sequels. Franco Ressell makes an unremarkable antagonist, and the assorted minor villains die before making an impression. Some feminine allure is provided by Linda Veras, wife of director Sergio Sollima. Portly Gianni Rizzo, previously one of Sartana's foes, appeared in all three Sabata flicks.

Sabata doesn't try for the grandeur of Leone or Sollima's Westerns. It's content being an agreeably silly shoot-'em-up. The approach eventually wears thin, but Sabata's good-natured anarchy mostly works.

Adios Sabata (1970)

Adios Sabata (alias Indio Black) is the trilogy's black sheep - really, not a Sabata movie at all. In time-honored Italian tradition, producers re-branded a generic Western to capitalize on Sabata's success. Yul Brynner replaces Lee Van Cleef, supposedly unavailable because he'd replaced Brynner in The Magnificent Seven Ride. Hard to say who got the better of that exchange.

Parolini and Renato Izzi's story resembles the "Zapata Westerns" prevalent around that time. Sabata is a gun-for-hire dabbling in the Franco-Mexican War. He teams with Juarista leader Escudo (Ignazio Spalla) to steal a gold cache from Emperor Maximilian's troops. This brings Sabata into conflict with Austrian Colonel Skimmel (Gerard Herter), a monocled psychopath who enjoys target shooting prisoners Amon Goeth-style. The wild card is Ballatine (Dean Reed), an artist-gunslinger on Skimmel's payroll.

Adios Sabata is more serious and slow-moving than its predecessor. Parolini incorporates a few picaresque elements, like a shootout timed by a spinning weather vein and another mute acrobatic sidekick (Sal Borgese). The gadgets are relatively tame: Sabata has a clip-loaded rifle, while the mute kicks metal balls at enemy's throats! Skimmel gets the neatest one, a model ship rigged to fire live rounds. Adios at least allows for breathing room between action scenes, but the shootouts and battle scenes are rote genre stuff.

Indeed, there's little to distinguish Adios from dozens of other Spaghettis. Parolini cribs wholesale from earlier Westerns: the setting and character interplay comes from Vera Cruz; Ballatine recalls A Bullet for the General's treacherous Nino; the finale apes The Wild Bunch. The historical context doesn't amount to much: Parolini inexplicably shows Austria instead of France as Maximilian's benefactors, while Escudo's revolutionaries behave like generic banditos. It's not good when plot twists and Gatling gun massacres invite yawns.

Yul Brynner seems profoundly bored, rarely raising his voice above a mumble. He's not helped by a ludicrous fringed outfit (insert Village People joke here). Dean Reed makes a bland sidekick, a runty Robert Redford with none of the charisma. Ignazio Spalla's role is more serious, and effective, than his other Sabata pictures. Gerard Herter does an effective retread of his Teutonic sociopath from The Big Gundown. Nieves Navarro (A Pistol for Ringo) has a minor role.

As you've likely gathered, Adios Sabata shares nothing with the original film besides the title, director and a few actors. Sabata's next adventure returned the franchise to its roots, but not to its benefit.

The Return of Sabata (1971)

Lee Van Cleef returns for the lackluster third entry. The Return of Sabata (1971) follows the standard lazy sequel blueprint: recycle the original's formula, notched up to ridiculous levels. Only die-hard Spaghetti fans and bad movie buffs should bother.

Sabata's now working as a marksman for a traveling circus. He drifts into another Texas town, running afoul of Joe McIntock (Giampero Albertini). McIntock and his family run the town, charging exorbitant taxes and generally pissing Sabata. Sabata also hopes to settle an old grudge with Clyde (Reiner Schoener), who runs a crooked craps game at the town casino. Inevitably the plot turns on a hidden cache of gold, which becomes a point of contention between the three antagonists.

The Return of Sabata starts with a striking set piece. Sabata stalks six gunslingers through a mist-blown funeral parlor, with several stern officials keeping score. It's a delightfully surreal sequence in its own right, cleverly sending up audience expectations and even setting up the finale. The movie ends on a high note, with a huge gun battle that entertains through sheer absurdity.

Between these scenes, however, is a dull and stupid film. The story's even thinner than the original: Sabata's rivalry/friendship with Clyde lacks the effectiveness of his interplay with Banjo. Nor is there much reason for him to fall out with McLintocks, except they're bad guys and Sabata needs bullet fodder. Anyone who's seen even one Spaghetti won't be shocked by Sabata and Clyde's tricks and betrayals. That leaves style, never wise for a movie featuring circus clowns.

Parolini's goofy self-awareness becomes a bad joke. Here Sabata gets not one but two silent acrobat sidekicks, sporting pork pie hats and long hair like Droogs out West. Among the weapons here are a crotch-fired slingshot (?), Sabata's magnetic shoe and a barrel with revolvers nailed inside. Marcello Gambioni's music seems more appropriate for a low-end Hanna Barbera cartoon (Speed Buggy perhaps?). At least the idiotic theme song provides a laugh:


"If you wanna get money, if you wanna get rich. If you want a good life, you gotta be a son of a… Pom pom pom, pom pom"
It's easy to see why Parolini opted for absurdity. Between Sabata and this sequel, Enzo Barboni's parodic They Call Me Trinity (1970) became a huge hit. Now Spaghettis that weren't dabbling in revolutionary politics evinced a comic tilt. It's possible, indeed, that Return was intended as an outright comedy. Too bad it isn't funny. Everything's a matter of degree: what works in Sabata gets agonizingly overdone by Return.

Van Cleef emerges unscathed, remaining stoic and snarky amidst the silliness. Sadly, his supporting cast is pathetic. Reiner Schoener makes a poor substitute for William Berger, lacking a personality or discernible motive. Ignazio Spalla plays another obnoxious sidekick with an irritating drum-beating schtick. Jacqueline Alexandre makes a decent femme fatale, but the villains are unmemorable pushovers.

In 1979, Harry and Michael Medved named Return of Sabata one of their Fifty Worst Films of All Time. This is hyperbole; Return isn't among the fifty worst Spaghetti Westerns of all time. But if the original Sabata is a quintessential Spaghetti, Return showcases the genre's most obnoxious excesses.

* * *

Three more Spaghetti Westerns down. Will Groggy ditch this genre and return to more "respectable" cinema soon? Time will tell.

The Price of Power

Like every other art form, Spaghetti Westerns became swept up in the late '60s political ferment. This took most obvious form in the Zapata Westerns, flicks like A Bullet for the General (1967) analogizing the 1910 Mexican Revolution with Che Guevara and the Vietcong. Others took more subtle tracts: Sergio Sollima's The Big Gundown (1966) began as a contemporary story about a crooked strikebreaker, then was retooled for a "safer" genre. Who searches Westerns for political messages?

The Price of Power (1969) stands out, even among such distinguished company. Four years before Executive Action, Tonino Valerii fictionalizes John F. Kennedy's assassination - in the Old West. The result is frustratingly uneven. Valerii mashes a political thriller with familiar Western tropes, resulting in an awkward experience.

Dallas, 1881 seethes with racial bigotry and resentment over the Civil War. President James Garfield (Van Johnson) visits Dallas hoping to heal old wounds, but a cabal of politicians, businessmen and bandits plots his death. Bill Willer (Giuliano Gemma), his father (Antonio Casas) murdered by the same conspirators, foils one assassination attempt and becomes a hero. When Garfield is killed, the local Sheriff (Benito Stefanelli) pins the crime on Jack Donovan (Ray Saunders), an innocent black man. Bill joins the President's assistant McDonald (Warren Vanders) and a newspaper man (Manuel Zarzo) to unravel the conspiracy.

Let's address the obvious first: The Price of Power portrays history as accurately as The Flintstones recalls Neanderthal man. Garfield was shot in a DC railroad station by Charles Guiteau, a lunatic who thought Garfield owed him a diplomatic post. Garfield died after a long, debilitating illness caused by unsanitary medical care. This, along with the backstage rivalry of Garfield's liberal Republicans and Roscoe Conkling's crooked Stalwarts, deserves a film in its own right. But Valerii's interested in evoking a more recent assassination.

The allegory isn't subtle. Garfield's wife (Maria Caudra) wears a pink dress when arriving in Dallas. Roughnecks post "wanted for treason" posters with Garfield's visage throughout the city. The President quotes Kennedy directly, saying "I look at things as they could be and ask, ‘Why not?’” The Texan Vice President (Jose Suarez) meets with the conspirators the night before the assassination. There's a Warren Commission-style judicial panel covering up the murder. Valerii even stages the shooting Zapruder-style, with concealed killers firing from an overpass. Price is surprisingly thorough in its compilation of conspiracy lore.

But Price is more interesting in theory than execution. Valerii and writer Massimo Patrizi show Garfield done in by a cabal of unreconstructed Confederates, angry at his policies of racial reform. Here's where Price breaks down. If evoking Kennedy, the comparison doesn't wash: Lyndon Johnson almost immediately passed the Civil Rights Act, legally abolishing segregation. By contrast, in 1881 Reconstruction was essentially finished; Garfield's liberalism extended more to civil service reform than racial equality. The film doesn't work either as analogy or history.

Price isn't entirely satisfying as a Western either. Valerii's direction mixes expected Almerian vistas with Stelvio Massi's expressive deep focus photography. He stages some good action scenes, as when Bill foils an ambush of the President's train, or how the crippled journalist outwits the Sheriff. Valerii's best trick has Bill duel with the Sheriff in the dark, using a lighted cigar to mark their targets. Spaghetti fans will immediately note the Sweetwater and Flagstone sets from Once Upon a Time in the West. Luis Bacalov also contributes a moody score.

But the second half bogs down in excessive exposition that kills narrative momentum. The conspirators argue and negotiate interminably with the Vice President and McDonald, never putting their threats into action. For that matter, the characters don't really gel. McDonald's role is unnecessarily murky; he goes from loyal bodyguard to possible conspirator to trial prosecutor within a few scenes. The most interesting villain is Wallace (Michael Harvey), a Confederate renegade hoping to restart the Civil War. Yet he's relegated to expendable henchman status.

Giuliano Gemma is well-cast as the straight-arrow Bill, though the material stresses his limitations. When Bill finds his slain father, his reaction's like someone spotting spilled coffee on the kitchen floor. Van Johnson spouts badly dubbed platitudes but Warren Vanders handles his inscrutable character well. Fernando Rey (The French Connection) plays the chief conspirator. Benito Stefanelli, familiar from 100 Spaghetti bit parts, gets an unusually meaty role as the two-timing Sheriff. Other recognizable faces - Antonio Casas, Jose Calvo, Michael Harvey, Lorenzo Robledo, Frank Brana - also appear.

The Price of Power is an interesting failure. As a Western it's slow and pretentious; as a political expose it's minor league compared to Z or All the President's Men. Ultimately it's an awkward attempt to graft contemporary American politics onto the past, by someone evincing little grasp on either.

If You Meet Sartana Pray for Your Death

"I am your pallbearer."

Today we meet another Spaghetti Western icon. Described by Len Liu as a cross between James Bond and Mandrake the Magician, Gianni Garko's Sartana has more style and wit than most of his compatriots. Five official movies begot innumerable ripoffs, some teaming Sartana with Django and Trinity! His first adventure, If You Meet Sartana Pray for Your Death (1968), has everything a Spaghetti fan could want - though it might leave the non-converted cold.

See if we can follow this. Sartana (Gianni Garko) arrives on the scene of a stagecoach robbery, wiping out Morgan's (Klaus Kinski) outlaw gang. Another coach gets robbed by General Mendoza's (Fernando Sancho) Mexican bandits, only for Mendoza to be double-crossed by Lansky (William Berger). Lansky's in cahoots with a small-town Mayor (Sydney Chaplin) and banker (Gianni Rizzo) for the stagecoach payroll, but he can't trust his bosses anymore than Morgan or Mendoza. With everyone betraying each other, Sartana patiently waits to swoop in.

What Sartana lacks in sophistication, it compensates with fast-paced fun. Director Gianfranco Parolini places heavy emphasis on Spaghetti nuts-and-bolts: betrayal, greed, violent action. Scarcely five minutes goes by without a shootout or massacre, Parolini staging the gundowns with childish aplomb. Not satisfied with Sartana gunning down five baddies at once? Let Lasky escalate things to genocide levels with a homemade Gatling gun! Parolini somehow topped himself with Sabata (1969), whose outlandish gadgetry puts James West to shame.

Too bad Sartana leaves little room for originality between gunfights. Parolini takes his familiar double cross plot to extremes, with a few too many antagonists vying for the gold. The town elders and General Mendoza get so little screen time, they barely register. With even minor characters like Evelyn (Heidi Fischer) playing their own game, Sartana becomes a predictable exercise in nihilistic attrition.

Like many Spaghettis, Sartana stands or falls on its hero. Gianni Garko is more appealing than the genre's usual laconic antiheroes. He gives Sartana a dry wit to match his improbable quick draw skills, making him more human than, say, the Man With No Name. Nonetheless, Garko keeps Sartana as crafty and devious as everyone around him. Relying on a four barreled derringer with a nifty card-themed cylinder, he's more than a match for the show's myriad villains.

William Berger plays a scene-stealing wildcard: Lasky is the most interesting character through sheer unpredictability. Berger became a genre icon in his own right, appearing in Face to Face, Sabata and Keoma. Fernando Sancho (A Pistol for Ringo) plays another megalomaniac Mexican bandit. Klaus Kinski's wasted in an inconsequential cameo. Gianni Rizzo and Sydney Chaplin play supporting villains while Heidi Fleischer provides some momentarily feminine allure.

Spaghetti Westerns are typically a hard sell, except to aficionados. If You Meet Sartana Pray for Your Death is agreeable rough-house entertainment, yet it's so slight and derivative I'm hard-pressed to recommend it to casual viewers. Those with a taste for high body counts and treacherous anti-heroes will be more than satisfied.

Django Kill...If You Live, Shoot!

I've seen some strange Westerns, but none compare to Django Kill (1967). Giulio Questi's Spaghetti epic is a grotesque carnival of killing, each scene a tableau of bad taste. It's repulsive yet strangely watchable.

The Stranger (Tomas Milan), aka Django, is a Mexican bandit who joins American crook Oaks (Piero Lulli) in a robbery. Oaks double-crosses his Mexican compatriot, killing his men and leaving Django for dead. Django's revived by a pair of Indians who take him to the nearest town, who've denied him vengeance by gruesomely lynching Oaks and his gang. Among the many factions vying for control is Zorro (Robert Camardiel), a sadist with a gang of black-clad "muchachos." Zorro tries to hire Django, then tortures him to ferret out his cache of gold. Assorted twists, betrayals and eviscerations follow.

From the first shot of Django emerging vampire-like from a grave, Django Kill signals it's not your ordinary Western. Questi ups the ante in cinematic sadism: gunfights turn into lynchings, characters are graphically scalped, an adolescent boy is tortured and gang raped. One villain gets torn apart by townspeople searching for gold bullets in his belly! Add Zorro's gay cowboys, two aphoristic Indians, an alcoholic parrot, a sluttish madam (Marilu Toto) who orgasms at the sight of gold and an attic-bound wife (Patrizia Valturri) out of Jane Eyre for a neat blend of tackiness and incoherence.

Questi adds insult to injury, or inspiration to insanity, by dousing Django in tacky symbolism. Like many Spaghettis, it drips with religious iconography. Django inevitably gets crucified in a jail cell, as bloodthirsty bats (!) gnaw on his flesh. Questi additionally subverts small town Western values, showing the townspeople as greedy backstabbers, united only in bloodshed and death. Django Kill so earnestly invests its carnage with "meaning" that it becomes sort of endearing.

Drink, you feathered sponge!

Beyond its guilty pleasure status, Django Kill has little to commend it. Plot-wise, credit Questi for trying something different from the usual betrayal and revenge plot. But the story bogs down in its absurdities, characters revealing motivations than instantly being bumped off. Questi's flashy style proves incoherent, all jerky flashbacks, surreal color schemes (especially the bleached-white desert) and slapdash editing. It's all scored by Ivan Vandor's incongruously bouncy music. The result is more hallucination than movie.

Tomas Milan's Django is uncharacteristically passive, showing little gun-fighting prowess and less resolution. It's not a patch on Milan's iconic turns as Cuchillio or Beauregard Bennett. Robert Camardiel gets the meatiest part, whether drooling over his henchmen or bantering with his bird. The other cast members make little impression.

Django Kill is immune to a review like this. Conventionally analyzed it's terrible, yet its sheer perversity fascinates. Fans of exploitation cinema will have a ball; others should steer clear.

Django the Bastard

In the Spaghetti Western's heyday, Italian filmmakers took follow-the-leader to comical extremes. Over 30 Westerns feature characters named Django, starring myriad Spaghetti legends: Tomas Milan, Terence Hill, George Eastman. Most just piggy-back off of Sergio Corbucci's original, though some stand out like the hyper-violent Django Kill! (1967). There's even a porn version called Nude Django!

The most bizarre, perhaps, is Django the Bastard (1969). It prefigures Clint Eastwood's High Plains Drifter (1971), with a supernatural gunslinger dealing death to assorted dastards. Sergio Gerrone's striking direction makes Django as much horror movie as Western.

Two businessmen get killed by a mysterious gunslinger (Anthony Steffen) styling himself "the Devil from Hell." Turns out the Stranger is Django, a Confederate soldier seemingly killed in a wartime ambush arranged by three superiors. The third, Major Murdok (Paolo Gozlino), hires an army of outlaws to protect him, taking over a small town for a grisly showdown.

At a glance, Django the Bastard seems a standard Spaghetti Western. A mysterious stranger seeking vengeance? Long-ago villains who've become respected businessmen? Murdok's brother Luke (Luciano Rossi), a cackling blond psychopath? Choppy, half-remembered flashbacks? It's typical stuff, garish violence included. Except Gerrone and Anthony Steffen (who co-wrote as well as starred) transcend cliche with macabre presentation. Django isn't merely a vengeance-minded superman but, to all appearances, a literal ghost.

Gerrone reconfigures these tropes into a six-gun slasher film. Django stalks his second victim through a moonlit graveyard, toppling his corpse into a grave. Django hides in shadows, materializing out of nowhere, vanishing when cornered. Murdok even has a "vision" dissipated when a henchman enters. Gerrone reinforces Django's "avenging angel" credentials with a crucifix motif, from his crude tombstones to crucifying three villains. Perhaps it makes sense that the lunatic Luke is only one who does Django any damage.

Gerrone gives genre-mandated action a disturbing twist. Off-kilter angles and optical distortions heighten the supernatural focus. Django tricks bad guys with booby traps and mounted dummies. The final 40 minutes are essentially a protracted set piece, with Django decimating Murdok's gang in an all-night standoff. (Eastwood's Pale Rider (1985) may have drawn inspiration from this, too.) The score by Eliso Mancuso and Vasili Kojucharov alternates between standard trumpets and fuzz guitar with ghostly wailing and strings.

Anthony Steffen is suitably impassive, in a role requiring little beyond intimidating glances and an unnerving grin. Rada Rassimov (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly) plays Murdock's unhappy sister-in-law who forms an alliance with Django. Unfortunately, Paolo Gozlino makes a forgettable villain. But his blandness is preferable to Luciano Rossi's ludicrous performance: Luke raves and gnashes teeth like a dime store Klaus Kinski, more annoying than intimidating.

But no one's watching Django the Bastard for great acting. The macabre atmosphere more than compensates. In a subgenre not known for subtlety or restraint, Django's madness still proves unsettling.

A Pistol for Ringo

With Giuliano Gemma's tragic passing, it seems appropriate to spotlight his best-known role. Gemma played the amiable gunslinger Ringo twice, in arguably the first big post-Fistful of Dollars Spaghetti Westerns. Like Sergio Corbucci's Django, the Ringo films inspired myriad "sequels" borrowing the title but nothing else.

A Pistol for Ringo (1965) credited Gemma as "Montgomery Wood," in a genre still shy of Italian stars. (Remember Fistful costars "Johnny Wells" and "Benny Reeves"?) It marked his first film with director Duccio Tessari, who remained Gemma's collaborator in both Westerns and other genres. Ringo is watchable but uninspired, awkwardly mixing wild action and plot twists.

It's Christmas in a Texas border town. Mexican bandit Sancho (Fernando Sancho) brings in the Yuletide with a bank robbery, bloodily foiled by Sheriff Ben (George Martin). Sancho and his gang hole up in a local ranch, taking Major Clyde (Antonio Casas), his daughter Ruby (Hally Hammond) and assorted others hostage. Unable to reduce the bandits by siege, Ben reluctantly releases gunslinger Ringo (Giuliano Gemma) from jail to defeat Sancho. Ringo's happy to oblige, but his help comes at a price.

A Pistol for Ringo ranks among the most Americanized Spaghettis. Despite the Tabernas locations familiar from one 100 Spaghettis, some darker content like graphic violence and a near-rape, Ringo largely lacks the genre's comic strip stylization. Between its clean-cut hero, goofy comedy and Maurizio Graf's phonetic warbling on the soundtrack, it resembles nothing less than a '30s Republic serial. Even Ennio Morricone's instrumental music seems more laid back than usual.

Ringo starts with a bang, its opening half hour saturated with action. But it dags in the middle sections, settling into a static siege format. Tessari co-wrote Fistful and tries to recapture that film's myriad double crosses, but Ringo's treachery is so brazen (he openly boasts of his true intentions halfway through!) that Sancho seems moronic for not catching on. The hostages (save the leads) are faceless bullet fodder and Tessari wastes time on awkward comic relief: Clyde's courtship of bandita (Nieves Navarro) is particularly grating. Ringo rejuvenates with a tense finale, Tessari staging some creative moments (a cowbell features in the final showdown) that redeem much.

Giuliano Gemma seems awkwardly cast. The movie positions Ringo as mercenary like Fistful's Joe or Django, unscrupulously selling himself to both sides. But Gemma's too clean-cut and mellow to sell this angle: a guy introduced hopscotching with kids isn't a convincing cutthroat. This isn't to knock Gemma, who's appealing throughout, but that's part of the problem: a character so nasty on paper shouldn't be so likeable in practice.

Fernando Sancho, the paunchy but formidable heavy, became a stock Spaghetti villain. He's quite effective, even if his dubbing voice resembles a Spanish Cookie Monster. Nieves Navarro (The Big Gundown) makes a stunning femme fatale. Tessari's wife Lorella De Luca, credited as Hally Hammond, plays Ruby; Antonio Casas and George Martin play less interesting characters.


A Pistol for Ringo is a mediocre Spaghetti. Tessari presents some exciting action, but the movie just feels too tame. His sequel, The Return of Ringo (1965), proves much darker and better-realized.

The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith

The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1978) makes for bleak viewing. Fred Schepsi's Outback epic achieved notoriety for its extreme violence, which is only part of its rich texture. It's a disquieting mediation on race and colonialism, trapping its protagonist between rebellion and self-destruction.

Jimmie Blacksmith (Tom E. Lewis) is a half-caste Aborigine raised by the Reverend Neville (Jack Thompson). Jimmie tries to fit in to Australian society, working as a laborer, farmhand and policeman and marrying the white Gilda (Angela Punch Macgregor). But he can't overcome engrained white prejudice and grows increasingly bitter. Then Gilda gives birth to a white child, whose parentage Jimmie doubts. His latest employer (Don Crosby) finally pushes Jimmie too far, triggering a bloody killing spree. 

Outwardly, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith seems a standard liberal outrage picture. Australia's had a long history of mistreating or exploiting its aboriginals, whether through extermination or intermarriage with whites. This subject's informed a number of recent films, notably Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002) and Australia (2008). Some later scenes do espouse an overt message, as when schoolmaster McCreadie (Peter Carroll) enumerates the "benefits" (namely alcohol and measles!) that Europeans introduced to Australia. But Schepsi, adapting Thomas Keneally's novel, mostly makes his points through nuanced storytelling.

Jimmie starts out submissive and cheerful, wearing white clothes and smiling at insults. He's considered a hopeful prospect for civilizing: Neville encourages him to marry a white girl to produce quarter-black offspring (and hence dilute the native gene pool). But his efforts to act white only earn suspicion and condescension. McCreadie's friendliness unnerves Jimmie: a man who unblinkingly killed an infant can't bring himself to harm someone who genuinely respects him. Whether playing the "good native" or rapacious savage, Jimmie's lost his own sense of agency: he's defined and destroyed by the European mindset.

Yet Schepsi avoids making Jimmie Blacksmith a revenge fantasy, or its protagonist a Civil Rights martyr. Indeed, Jimmie's a morally compromised character from the start: he doesn't mind maiming Aboriginals as a policeman (though he draws the line at murder). He certainly forfeits our sympathy when he butchers whole families with rifles and axes. This rampage makes the Apache depredations of Ulzana's Raid seem chivalrous, yet points to the story's tragedy. Australian society, from callous officials to a ruthless posse, now has license to slam uppity "blacks" into place.

Schepsi skillfully evokes turn-of-the-century Australia, mixing period design with dialogue about the upcoming Federation and the Boer War. (One pointed aside has a character contrasting Britain's critique of Boer racism with their own treatment of native Australians.) As expected the violence is graphic, complete with axe murders, shootouts and brutal beatings. It's contrasted effectively with beautiful Australian scenery, bolstered by Ian Baker's gorgeous photography and Bruce Smeaton's suitably tragic score. It's a gritty, violent show that nonetheless achieves aesthetic grandeur.

Tom E. Lewis (The Proposition) gives a remarkable turn. He's effortlessly charming yet lets hints of Jimmie's frustration periodically slip through. His first murder impacts viewers like a carefully timed explosion. Steve Dodd and Freddy Reynolds play Jimmie's relatives drawn into his vendetta. Several up-and-coming Australian stars feature in supporting parts: Jack Thompson (Breaker Morant) as the Reverend, Angela Punch Macgregor as Jimmie's wife, Peter Carroll (The Last Wave) as the obsequious McCreadie and Brian Brown in a walk-on role.

The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith is a remarkably powerful film. Rarely listed among the highlights of the Australian New Wave, its violent pessimism earns comparison to that period's best American Westerns.

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.

Western Union

Fritz Lang directed three Westerns, all stylish mediations on frontier mythography. Western Union (1941) is chock full of cliches, yet proves highly entertaining. A good cast and effective make this familiar story sing.

Outlaw Vance Shaw (Randolph Scott) rescues wounded Edward Creighton (Dean Jagger) while fleeing a posse. Later, Shaw finds that Creighton is an engineer with Western Union, contriving to build a transcontinental telegraph line. Creighton enlists Shaw, along with Eastern-educated Richard Blake (Robert Young) and sister Sue (Virginia Gilmore) to oversee its construction. But Shaw encounters Jack Slade (Barton MacLaine), his old partner-in-crime, now a Confederate spy stirring up trouble with Sioux Indians. Shaw grows torn between loyalty to Slade and his desire to go straight.

Western Union plays heavily on familiar archetypes. Robert Carson's script (based on a Zane Grey novel) blatantly borrows from John Ford's The Iron Horse (1925) and Cecil B. DeMille's Union Pacific (1939), replacing the railroad with telegraph. Films like this take Manifest Destiny and its technological innovations for granted; Creighton's building a newer, better America that can communicate coast-to-coast. There are shootouts, double-crosses, hostile Indians, love triangles and silly sidekicks (most egregiously Slim Summerville's cook). Westerns don't get more old-fashioned than this.


The situations resemble a cheap penny dreadful, but Lang's direction makes Western Union work. For a start, it's beautifully shot: Lang and photographers Edward Cronjager and Allen M. Davey use Technicolor to full advantage. The opening with Vance scattering a buffalo herd makes a breathtaking sequence. Throughout, Lang invests Utah's Zion National Park with the gravitas that John Ford granted Monument Valley, or Budd Boetticher Lone Pine. The desert landscapes are ravishing, and even the backlot sets have glorious vibrancy. 

Lang specializes, too, in rougher set pieces than your standard shoot-'em-up. At one point, Vance unbinds his hands by burning his wrists over a fire! That's before Slade's gang torches a Western Union camp in an impressive set pieces. The show culminates in a violent shootout, with Vance blasting Slade through a barbershop window. Western Union stages its familiar redemption arc with panache.

Randolph Scott's still in the second banana stage of his career, billed under Robert Young. But Scott's undeniably the star, his wary charm and conflicted character overwhelming Young's goofy protagonist. Dean Jagger is well-cast as the upright Creighton. Virginia Gillmore makes her love interest appealingly strong-willed; Barton MacLaine is a slimy villain. John Carradine, Chill Wills, Russell Hicks and Slim Summerville inhabit supporting roles.

Western Union makes such compelling viewing that we don't begrudge its cliches. There's enough colorful characters, gorgeous scenery and exciting action to satisfy Western fans.

Yellow Sky

William A. Wellman enjoyed a long and varied career, helming such perennials as Wings (1927), A Star is Born (1937) and Beau Geste (1939). He hit his stride in the '40s with stark, unsentimental genre flicks like The Ox-Bow Incident (1943) and Battleground (1949). Yellow Sky (1948) fits snugly within that rubric, a simple but striking Western.

After a botched bank robbery, James Dawson (Gregory Peck) leads his outlaw band across Death Valley. They arrive at Yellow Sky, an abandoned mining town occupied only by a prospector (James Barton) and his tomboy daughter Mike (Ann Baxter). Dawson discovers the two sit atop a gold mine, which his gang's eager to plunder. But Dawson has other ideas. He'd really rather go straight, and starts developing an attachment to Mike. His lieutenants Dude (Richard Widmark) and Lengthy (John Russell) don't like that idea, initiating conflict.

Yellow Sky wraps a lot of story in its 98 minute runtime. There's a gritty sparseness reminiscent of Budd Boetticher all the characters and situations are stock, yet so expertly presented it's hard to complain. Dawsno starts as a rough character, roughing up his men and threatening to rape Mike, but a few heart-to-hearts and a shave later, he's your typical Western hero. Writer Lamar Trotti gives villain simple motives to drive their treachery: Dude just wants to justify the gang's hardship; Lengthy falls for Mike. It's  frontier myth splashed with a dose of harsh reality.

But Wellman's direction really stands out. Yellow Sky's opening is a self-contained gem, with Dawson's gang trekking across Death Valley. It's a remarkable sequence, presaging Wellman's later Westward the Woman: frontier life is no grand adventure but a wearying hardship. He makes ingenious use of the ghost town setting and handles mandated set pieces well, occasionally even subverting them (a band of menacing Apaches come and go without incident). Joseph MacDonald's photography adds a noir-ish feel, mixing stark shadows with neat optical effects (including a proto-Bond "gun barrel" scene). Along with the near-absence of music, it's a unique experience.

Gregory Peck successfully transitions from rapacious lout (shades of his Duel in the Sun character) to straight-edged hero. This convenient reform works because, well, he's Gregory Peck. Richard Widmark adds another pre-stardom dastard to his resume. Anne Baxter makes a convincing tough gal who never goes completely soft. James Barton can't help coming off as a Walter Huston manque - though this film came out the same year as Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

Yellow Sky is a solid Western. The story breaks little new ground, but its efficient structure and foreboding photography make it worth a watch.

Viva Zapata!

Hollywood's never known how to handle the Mexican Revolution (1910-1921), vacillating between romanticized epics like Viva Villa! (1934) and cynical adventures of The Wild Bunch variety. Elia Kazan's Viva Zapata! (1952) desperately wants to make a serious statement on revolutionary politics. Despite stylish direction and a solid cast, it makes a muddle of its message.  

Emiliano Zapata (Marlon Brando) leads. He allies with President Madero (Harold Gordon), but becomes an outlaw again when General Huerta (Frank Silvera) overthrows Madero. Zapata fights Huerta's government, along with internal dissidents: his brother Eufemio (Anthony Quinn) and shifty subordinate (Joseph Wiseman) have their own ideas on waging revolution. Zapata joins with Pancho Villa (Alan Reed) to capture Mexico City, but immediately recuses himself of power. Villa's successor Carranza enlists Aguirre in a devious plot to bring Zapata to heel.

Working off a screenplay by John Steinbeck (!), Viva Zapata! intends. Beyond genre-mandated thrills and scenery, Kazan tries to mix political drama and character study. The story unfolds in clipped yet sentimental prose that seems more Hemingway than Steinbeck. Zapata's solidness contrasts well with Mexico's round robin of hapless leaders: offered the Presidency by Pancho Villa, he immediately refuses. A Mexican Cincinnatus, Zapata remains pure by returning to his hacienda. 

But Kazan's message feels compromised. Much of Zapata has an agreeable roughness, highlighting themes of class conflict and cyclical revolution. Zapata's followers have grants dating back to Spanish rule, which doesn't remotely faze Diaz: legality's followed only when convenient. Certainly Madero's adherence to legal strictures allows Huerta to checkmate him. And the violence is shockingly blunt, culminating in a gun-down double cross presaging Bonnie & Clyde. Yet Zapata's politics seem curiously formless and desultory, beyond wanting to save peasants from evil landowners. That's something both Che Guevara and the Three Stooges have no trouble getting behind. 

For the most part, Zapata makes a disappointingly conventional hero. There's some edginess in his subversive rhetoric and sexual charisma, but he's a generically apolitical rebel doing the right thing. His conflict between middle class comfort and rural background, and his testy wooing of wife Josefa (Jean Peters) prove less compelling. He's even less successful as a symbol. Kazan assures us that Zapata's less important than his followers, but this undercuts the Great Man grandstanding. We're reminded of The Magnificent Seven assuring us that "only the farmers have won."

Viva Zapata! scores thanks to Kazan's assured direction. Stylish yet less showy than other "great directors," Kazan matches Steinbeck's terse prose with almost elliptical stylization. Joseph McDonald employs deep focus photography not only in darkened interiors but expansive battle scenes, with Christ imagery and revolutionary tableaux resembling Eisenstein. There are impressive set pieces when Zapata "summons" peasants to rescue him, and Madero meets a pathetic fate. There's also facile elements, like Zapata's white horse that lives on as an obnoxious symbol. It's artistic yet (mostly) subdued, a solid combination.

Zapata! inspired a whole sub-genre of Westerns, projecting contemporary concerns onto Revolutionary Mexico. Indeed, they're informally known as Zapata Westerns (more flattering than Jenni Calder's "Chili con carnage" label). This genre reached its apex in the '60s, where The Professionals and The Wild Bunch largely channeled Vietnam-era cynicism into violent mayhem. In contrast, Spaghetti Westerns wholeheartedly embraced politics: A Bullet for the General turns Kazan's ambivalent cynicism into crude Marxist agitprop, while Sergio Leone's Duck You Sucker! swipes several key images, including Huerta watching Madero's execution through a rainy windshield.

Marlon Brando does surprisingly well as a hardened idealist. Brando brings his usual method tricks to the part, but it's less obviously affected than many of his turns. Anthony Quinn won an Oscar playing Eufemio, boisterous and larger-than-life in agreeable fashion. Joseph Wiseman does more subtle work, conveying villainy through a chilling sneer. Jean Peters is less successful changing from haughty bourgeois to devoted peasant wife. Zapata's rivals are represented in a gallery of impressive character turns: condescending Fay Roope, meek Harold Gordon, ruthless Frank Silvera and boorish Alan Reed.

Viva Zapata! presents some interesting ideas indifferently. As an exploration of revolutionary politics, it might have done better to flesh out Zapata's beliefs beyond do-gooderism.

The Lone Ranger

In three weeks, The Lone Ranger went from Disney's next blockbuster tent pole to this summer's biggest flop. It's probably the most backhanded of complements to say Ranger isn't anywhere near as bad as the reviews indicate. Sure, it's Pirates of the Caribbean out West, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

John Reid (Armie Hammer) is an idealistic lawyer returning to Colby, Texas. His train's held up by the gang of Butch Cavendish (William Fitchner), a sadistic outlaw rumored to be a wendigo, or evil spirit. Also on the train is Tonto (Johnny Depp), a crack brained Comanche Indian who reluctantly befriends John. After Butch kills John's brother (James Badge Dale), John gets reborn as The Lone Ranger, a vengeance-seeking, mask-wearing vigilante. He and Tonto contend not only with Butch, but Latham Cole (Tom Wilkinson), an amiable Union Pacific official who's not what he seems.

Besides filming in Monument Valley, Gore Verbinski lards Ranger with homages to The Searchers (the farmhouse massacre), The Wild Bunch (a shootout juxtaposed with Shall We Gather at the River?) and Once Upon a Time in the West (too many to count). Verbinski enjoys playing John Ford for awhile, but ultimately returns to the Pirates blueprint: straight-laced hero teamed with sleazy sidekick; the double-dealing corporate bigwig; villains who hate each other more than the heroes; "progress" equated with mass murder; Johnny Depp in strange makeup. Verbinski demonstrates the thin line between hack and auteur.

The Lone Ranger nonetheless works, jettisoning Pirates' more absurd plotting and supernatural elements for streamlined storytelling. The buddy dynamic works pretty well, and Verbinski spends enough time shading in supporting players that the interstitial material carries some weight. The main focus though are the go-for-broke, Rube Goldbergian set pieces Verbinski specializes in. Attempting to one-up Buster Keaton, Verbinski opens with a raucous train robbery/chase scene, topping it later on with a spectacular running gun battle complete with William Tell Overture. CGI-aided or no, it hits all the right action movie notes.

Admittedly, Ranger runs long at 149 minutes. The framing device with an antiquated Tonto is worthless, while a digressive set piece featuring ivory-legged hooker Red (Helena Bonham Carter) goes nowhere. There's much puerile liberal whining about corporate greed and maltreatment of Indians, culminating in a massacre straight from Soldier Blue. And the movie undercuts its dark tone and grisly violence with jokes about horse poop and killer bunnies. Still, Butch eviscerating his victims in this family film is scarcely less disturbing than Only God Forgives.

Johnny Depp plays Tonto as, essentially, Jack Sparrow with pidgin English and a bird on his head. Your mileage may vary whether this amuses or annoys. Armie Hammer (The Social Network) proves perfect casting as the straight arrow John Reed. Why this charismatic actor can't catch a break (this marks his third flop after Mirror, Mirror and J. Edgar) is beyond comprehension. William Fitchner makes a ferocious baddie. With his pork pie hat and scruffy beard, Tom Wilkinson uncannily recalls James Mason in Lord Jim. Ruth Wilson plays the perfunctory love interest, while Helena Bonham Carter's part amounts to an extended cameo.

It's no fun defending a movie everyone else hates, but dammit if I didn't enjoy The Lone Ranger. I was grinning like a kid during the wild gunfight/train chase at the film's climax, and really that's all I demand from my summer blockbusters.

Colorado Territory

Just before the advent of "adult Westerns" comes this curio. Raoul Walsh's noir-inflected oater Colorado Territory (1949) tries to add darkness to a familiar Western plot, but the result proves underwhelming.

Wes McQueen (Joel McCrea) escapes from a Missouri jail and flees to Colorado. He soon falls in with outlaw leader Reno (John Archer) in a convoluted train robbery. Though Wes falls for preacher's daughter Julie Ann (Dorothy Malone), he also develops feelings for half-caste femme fatale Colorado (Virginia Mayo), who has her own agenda. Wes and his uneasy partners waste no time backstabbing each other, leading our antihero squaring off against a massive posse.

Colorado Territory is a remake of Walsh's High Sierra (1941). Transplanting that gangster film's story to the Old West works well enough, but the movie never really comes into its own. Walsh's big action scenes are uninspired, with obvious rear projection grating against location work. The character dynamics yield few surprises, and Wes's bid for redemption never grows as compelling as it should be. With its morally compromised hero and downbeat ending Colorado's unusually dark for a '40s Western, but that's not enough on its own.

Joel McCrea seems awkwardly cast in a role originated by Humphrey Bogart. Villains John Archer and James Mitchell aren't especially effective, either. Virginia Mayo offers the best turn: Colorado veers towards stereotype, but Mayo invests her with both poignancy and sex appeal. Character actors Morris Ankrum, Henry Hull and Frank Puglia provide dependable support.

Colorado Territory is decent but unremarkable. Perhaps being a remake of a bona fide classic held Walsh back, but either way it feels like it could be much better.

Night Passage

Night Passage (1957) is best-remembered as Anthony Mann and James Stewart's abortive eighth collaboration. Having teamed up on several classic Westerns (Winchester '73, The Man from Laramie), the two fell out over script disagreements, leaving Disney veteran James Neilson to helm the picture. It's still a solid oater.

Grant McLane (James Stewart) is a former railroad "troubleshooter" eeking out a living as a traveling musician. After several robberies, train boss Kimball (Jay C. Flippen) hires Grant to safeguard a payroll shipment. Grant learns the robbers are led by his estranged brother, the Utica Kid (Audie Murphy). Along with little boy Joey (Brandon De Wilde) Grant foils the robbery, but finds his trouble's just beginning.

Clocking in at a lean 90 minutes, Night Passage is marvelously economical. Writers Norman A. Fox and Borden Chase provide sharp characterizations, with Grant humiliated playing for coins and Utica desiring to one-up his brother. There are neat twists on familiar set pieces: Utica's gang foils a railroad posse with expertly deployed horseshoes, while the final showdown occurs in a sawmill. There's little doubt where the story's headed, especially with Joey in the mix, but Neilson tells the story so crisply it's hard to complain. If any genre can get away with cliches it's the Western.

Neilson's direction is unfussy, lacking Anthony Mann's grim stylization but certainly pleasant. William H. Daniels provides beautiful photography, especially of the train hurtling through Colorado's autumnal countryside. The train heist presages The Wild Bunch's second act stick-up; a shootout in an unlit bar resembles set pieces in The Price of Power and The Shootist. Dimitri Tiomkin contributes a fine score. Maybe Mann could have made Passage an all-time classic, but there's really little to complain about.

James Stewart plays cynical and hard-bitten better than most. Cynics mock Stewart's accordion-playing but it serves the character fine; villains mock or underestimate the musician-gunslinger at their peril. Likeable Audie Murphy makes Utica's conflict and redemption seem poignant. Brandon De Wilde isn't bad and love interest Elaine Stewart does well with an under-drawn love interest. Dan Duryea recycles his talky psycho from Winchester '73. Genre stalwarts Paul Fix, Robert Wilke, Jack Elam and Chuck Roberson put in requisite appearances. Olive Carey has a notable bit as a grizzled frontier lady.

Night Passage plays better than its reputation suggests. It may be Anthony Mann lite, but it's certainly entertaining.