Randolph Scott Rides Alone

Randolph Scott as Buchanan.

The Ranown Cycle consists of six Westerns made between 1956 and 1960 that starred Randolph Scott and were directed by Budd Boetticher and written by Burt Kennedy. These films don't comprise a formal series as Randolph Scott plays a different character in each one. However, they are thematically similar with each protagonist being a loner with a high moral code who isn't afraid to use his gun. The pictures were shot on a 10-day schedule and typically ran a brisk 70-80 minutes. Some of them were produced by Ranown, a company owned by Randolph Scott and Harry Joe Brown. However, the "Ranown Cycle" is the informal designation for all six films (a seventh Scott-Boetticher effort, Westbound, is sometimes erroneously listed as part of the series).

Made in 1958, Buchanan Rides Alone stars Scott as Tom Buchanan, a cowpoke heading from Mexico to West Texas to start his own spread. His journey takes him through the border town of Agry, where he decides to spend the night. Buchanon heads over to the saloon for a meal, but is confronted there by a loudmouthed young drunkard. After a brief tussle, he pretty much ignores the youth. Yet, shortly after leaving the bar, Buchanan witnesses a young Mexican man running out of the saloon after killing the drunkard in self-defense. When the sheriff's men start to beat up the young Mexican, Buchanan intervenes to stop it. He gets pummeled for his trouble and thrown into jail.

Yes, that's Peter Gunn as Carbo.

It turns out that the dead man was the son of Judge Simon Agry (Tol Avery), a local bigwig with political aspirations. His brother Lew, the town sheriff, shows little interest in dissuading the townsfolk from pushing for a lynching. However, Simon's right-hand man, Carbo (Craig Stevens), has a better idea. Knowing that the alleged killer's father is a wealthy rancher, he suggests that Simon exhort $50,000 for the young man's release. That plan doesn't sit well with the greedy Lew (Barry Kelley), who has his own plan for getting rich.

Frankly, it's hard to describe the rambling plot to Buchanan Rides Again. In a 2008 interview, Boetticher admitted he and Burt Kennedy ad-libbed the screenplay (which is credited to Charles Lang). The result is a weak narrative filled with colorful characters and a handful of priceless scenes that are unexpectedly amusing. A perfect example is a trial in the saloon in which the "bailiff" provides these instructions to the jury: "All right. Quiet! Quiet, everybody! Your trial is about to start. Now Jim here is going to pass among you with a tray and the judge wants me to have you put all your glasses in that tray... empty! The judge don't want no more liquored-up opinion like he had in that last trial."

As Tom Buchanan, Randolph Scott often seems too amused at the goings-on, with a smile plastered on his face. However, it is refreshing that Buchanan isn't the brightest cowboy in the world. When he arrives in Agry, he unwisely starts flashing his grub stake money which attracts the sheriff's attention (and that of a third Agry brother, a wimpy hotel owner).  It's also interesting that Buchanan acts mostly as a catalyst, while the plot revolves around the relationships among the three Agry brothers.

L.Q. Jones delivers a eulogy.

The film's best performance belongs to L.Q. Jones, a supporting actor best known as playing the ranch-hand Belden in 25 episodes of The Virginian TV series. Jones later became a producer of the notable "B" movies The Brotherhood of Satan (1971) and A Boy and His Dog (1975), which he also directed. In Buchanan Rides Alone, he plays one of the sheriff's deputies who forms a bond with Buchanan because they both hail from West Texas. His eulogy for one of his comrades, who is "buried" in a tree, is the film's highlight.

Buchanan Rides Alone is an above-average Western, but it lacks the intensity and scope of the James Stewart-Anthony Mann oaters made earlier in the 1950s. However, if you've seen those pictures, then by all means check out the Scott-Boetticher collaborations. You'll certainly be entertained.

Revisiting The Red Shoes

Moira Shearer as Vicky Page.

Black Narcissus is my favorite Michael Powell-Emeric Pressberger film--and I also think it's their masterpiece. But most critics and fans confer that "masterpiece" title on the duo's The Red Shoes (1948). I watched it many years ago, but, honestly, it didn't leave a significant impression. However, after recently viewing Made in England, an excellent documentary about Powell and Pressberger--and listening to Martin Scorsese gush about The Red Shoes' influence--I decided to give it another try.

For those who have not seen it, the plot revolves around three characters: ballet company impresario Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook), ballerina Vicky Page (Moira Shearer), and composer Julian Craster (Marius Goring). Each is dedicated to the musical arts, but to varying degrees. 

Anton Walbrook as Lermontov.

Lermontov lives for his ballet company--its employees are his family. When his star ballerina joyously announces her engagement to the company, Lermontov disappears into the wings of the theater. He is already deciding who will replace her. His preference for the ballet company over the people that comprise it earns him disdain at times. One colleague refers to him as a "gifted, cruel monster."

Julian is dedicated to his music. He wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about it and rushes to the piano to transcribe it. However, Julian can balance his profession and his personal life, especially after he falls in love with Vicky.

Vicky is torn between her need to dance and her love for Julian. Like Lermontov, she is obsessed with ballet and cannot live without it. Yet, she loves Julian passionately and cannot envision a life without him. When circumstances prevent her from dancing for Lermontov's company and being with Julian, Vicky confronts an existence that's burning from both ends.

While the characters portray the conflict between art and "real life," director Michael Powell visualizes it for the audience. The centerpiece of The Red Shoes is an audacious original ballet that literally pulls the viewer from the audience into an imaginary world. Powell opens the scene showing the curtains drawing back to reveal a solitary dancer, a shoe cobbler holding red ballet slippers, on the stage. Then, he cuts to a shot of the village that crops out the framing of the stage. The viewer is now on the stage with the performers and immersed into their world. 

Vicky dancing with a newspaper man.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the ballet is presented as an almost surrealistic film, recounting Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale of The Red Shoes. It's a colorful, energetic, sometimes visually frightening display of artistry, with Moira Shearer gliding past sheets of gel, floating through the air, and dancing with a man made of newspapers. The ballet ends with the protagonist's death and the shoe cobbler with the red slippers on the stage alone as the curtains draw to a close.

The controlling ballet shoes.

Powell and Pressberger merge their "real" and fantasy worlds in the climax to The Red Shoes. When Vicky appears to choose her career over love, Julian storms out of her dressing room. As Vicky walks toward the stage, her red ballet shoes seemingly take on a life of their own--forcing her to run out of the theater and toward a moving train. (It's no surprise that a train features prominently in this sequence, since Powell foreshadows its importance by integrating it into numerous scenes earlier in the film.)

Anton Walbrook is the standout among the cast. In his third Powell-Pressberger film, Walbrook gets a chance to portray a complex character that straddles the line between supportive and manipulative. Lermontov is an unforgiving taskmaster, but he recognizes artistic brilliance and supports it. When Vicky wants to leave the ballet company to be with Julian, Lermontov releases her from her contract. But when given a chance to see her again, he pressures her to come back into the fold. He wants to be gracious, but ultimately he must do what he feels is right for the ballet company.

Do I now rank The Red Shoes over Black Narcissus? No, the latter is still my favorite Powell & Pressberger film. But I am glad I watched The Red Shoes again. I have grown to admire its dazzling  colorful imagery, Powell's bold directing, and the film's exploration of the thin line between real world and the fantasy world created through visual and aural artistry.

Corbucci's The Great Silence

Jean-Louis Trintignant as Silence.

The most acclaimed Spaghetti Western filmmaker not named Sergio Leone. 

That's an apt description for Sergio Corbucci, a prolific Italian director and screenwriter whose career spanned four decades. Although he directed comedies, horror films, and sand-and-scandal epics, Corbucci is best known for his Spaghetti Westerns, especially Django (1966). Inspired by his friend Leone, Corbucci crafted a violent, allegorical Western that generated dozens of imitations and grew in critical stature over the years. Still, many critics now consider it Corbucci's second-best film--hailing The Great Silence as his masterpiece.

Released in 1968, The Great Silence takes place in Utah during the Great Blizzard of 1899. Starving men, who have become outlaws, have hidden in the snowy mountains with their families awaiting amnesty from the governor. A group of bounty hunters, based in a small town called Snow Hill, are killing the outlaws for the rewards. As one of the bounty hunters notes, each man's bounty is small but they add up if you kill enough of them.

Klaus Kinski as a bounty hunter.

Enter a mute gunfighter known only as Silence (Jean-Louis Trintignant), who is willing to kill anyone for money. To avoid being pursued by the law, Silence only kills in self-defense--sometimes provoking his enemies to reach for their guns first. Silence helps out the outlaws and later accepts "payment" from a widow to kill her husband's murderer. Of course, Silence has his own agenda in Snow Hill—which is revealed as The Great Silence reaches its climax.

There are critics who hail The Great Silence as a political or anti-capital allegory. I'm not sure about that, because you could probably make similar claims about any number of Westerns pitting ranchers against settlers. I believe it's the setting and the ending that make The Great Silence stand out among other Spaghetti Westerns.

The film is seemingly bathed in white snow. I'm hard-pressed to think of a snowier movie, though perhaps the 1993 film version of Ethan Frome comes close. In both movies, the dark skies and the flat white drifts provide a blanket of bleakness. The characters wrap any available scrap of cloth around their faces to stay warm. The horses trudge through high snow, sometimes collapsing to the ground in exhaustion. It's a visually grim landscape that is perfect for the inevitable ending that lurks behind every frame of The Great Silence.

As for that ending, I won't include any spoilers in this review. Let's just say it's unconventional and was the reason that Richard Zanuck refused to release the movie in the U.S. To appease his producers, Corbucci shot two alternate endings, though it's possible that neither one was actually used.

Is The Great Silence a Spaghetti Western masterpiece? No. It lacks the vivid characters and splendid set pieces of Leone's films. It's missing the brutal passion that made Django memorable. Neither of those criticisms implies that it's not worth a viewing. 

Vonetta McGee as Pauline.

Klaus Kinski gives one of his best performances as one of the villains, a vile rascal who is surprisingly intelligent (e.g., he refuses to be provoked by Silence, knowing that he would lose a gunfight). And Vonetta McGee gives an quiet understated performance as the widow who hires Silence. She would later star in the equally unconventional Blaxploitation Western Thomsine & Bushrod (1974).

Django, The Great Silence, and The Specialists (1969) are sometimes referred to as Corbucci's  Mud and Blood Trilogy.