Pretty much a generic Western. Robert Mitchum is a gunfighter named Clint Tollinger who rides into the Western town of Sheridan looking for his estranged wife and daughter. The towns folk learn of his presence and try to hire him to protect them from the porcine Dade Holman and his gang of thugs. They live out of town on a ranch but Holman runs the town and his goons are responsible for a number of killings. The malicious minions include such familiar faces as Claude Akins and Leo Gordon.
Okay, okay. This calls for another "gunfighter tries to hang up his guns but is drawn back into violence" plot. But, nope. Mitchum accepts a position as deputy from the impotent old sheriff, Henry Hull, with the proviso that his methods not be interfered with.
Aside from Mitchum's nonchalant acceptance of the dangerous job of taming the town, this is a calculated plot, borrowing from both "Shane" and "High Noon," most notably the former. Emile Meyer (Riker in "Shane") is carried over, and so is the meeting of community leaders in which they argue about hiring Clint Tollinger.
Some notable features of the movie. Karen Sharpe plays a young woman attracted to Mitchum, despite her engagement to the fiercely independent John Lupton. She's strikingly attractive despite the complete absence of a glabella. Her features are as sharp as her name. She's petite and innocent, true, but looks as if, under the proper conditions, she might eat you alive. Mitchum himself has given some powerful performances, as in "Night of the Hunter" and "Farewell, My Lovely." Here, he doesn't. He strides through the picture with his stomach held in and pistol butts protruding from every place of lodgment, his face as expressionless as those of Mount Rushmore. But a must-see is Brooklynite Ted DeCorsia imitating Lescaux, a villainous Frenchman from New Orleans. Not that New Orleans wasn't quite cosmopolitan at the time. Edgar Degas visited relatives there. During the Civil War, the light-skinned free black community was well educated and prosperous, and the city supported bilingual newspapers. But you ought to hear DeCorsia try to wrap his speech organs around a French accent. It never quite makes it to France but the attempt leads him by a curiously circuitous route through Middle Europe until it reaches someplace like Serbia, at which point the weather changes for the worst, the roads turn to glue, and the effort lurches to an embarrassing halt.
The production values are minimal. The town of Sheridan lacks local color. There is no sense of community in its appearance. The only places of business we see are strictly functional. They have signs over the entrances on the order of "Hay and Grain" and "Marshall" and "Palace" and "Sheridan Hotel" and "Red Dog." That's not necessarily a weakness. Howard Hawks' Western ambiance was functional as well, but the towns look lived in. There were PEOPLE on the streets and potted plants in the hotel lobbies and Mexican blankets on the bunks. Here, it seems as if money was saved by not hiring enough atmosphere people. It's a ghost town. The same can be said of the interiors. They seem to have been built yesterday. When Mitchum slams a door behind him, a long vertical crack appears in the plaster next to the hinges. The wardrobe is generic and so is the make up. Mitchum's hair is thoroughly jelled and not a strand is out of place. Karen Sharpe wears a cunning 1950s pony tail.
Beginning with the title, it's evident that not a great deal of effort was put into the production, despite the presence of some reasonably good talent before the cameras. "Clint Tollinger", eh? Nobody is named Clint Tollinger. I spent sixty-five months in the Library of Congress and there never, ever was a cowboy or gun hand named Clint, Cole, Wade, or Matt. As a matter of fact, the four most commons names were Ebeneezer and Gouverneur and Chesterfield and Cadbury. All these statements are incontestable although they are outright lies.
Perversely, I liked the thing. There was an adult element, even if only hinted at. Mitchum actually ENJOYS killing thugs and burning down their establishments. His eyes glow with pleasure. I thought -- half-hoped -- that the movie would go in that direction but it decided to play safe. Nevertheless, a not-disappointing Western, like all rituals, a fixed point in a changing and depressing universe.
Okay, okay. This calls for another "gunfighter tries to hang up his guns but is drawn back into violence" plot. But, nope. Mitchum accepts a position as deputy from the impotent old sheriff, Henry Hull, with the proviso that his methods not be interfered with.
Aside from Mitchum's nonchalant acceptance of the dangerous job of taming the town, this is a calculated plot, borrowing from both "Shane" and "High Noon," most notably the former. Emile Meyer (Riker in "Shane") is carried over, and so is the meeting of community leaders in which they argue about hiring Clint Tollinger.
Some notable features of the movie. Karen Sharpe plays a young woman attracted to Mitchum, despite her engagement to the fiercely independent John Lupton. She's strikingly attractive despite the complete absence of a glabella. Her features are as sharp as her name. She's petite and innocent, true, but looks as if, under the proper conditions, she might eat you alive. Mitchum himself has given some powerful performances, as in "Night of the Hunter" and "Farewell, My Lovely." Here, he doesn't. He strides through the picture with his stomach held in and pistol butts protruding from every place of lodgment, his face as expressionless as those of Mount Rushmore. But a must-see is Brooklynite Ted DeCorsia imitating Lescaux, a villainous Frenchman from New Orleans. Not that New Orleans wasn't quite cosmopolitan at the time. Edgar Degas visited relatives there. During the Civil War, the light-skinned free black community was well educated and prosperous, and the city supported bilingual newspapers. But you ought to hear DeCorsia try to wrap his speech organs around a French accent. It never quite makes it to France but the attempt leads him by a curiously circuitous route through Middle Europe until it reaches someplace like Serbia, at which point the weather changes for the worst, the roads turn to glue, and the effort lurches to an embarrassing halt.
The production values are minimal. The town of Sheridan lacks local color. There is no sense of community in its appearance. The only places of business we see are strictly functional. They have signs over the entrances on the order of "Hay and Grain" and "Marshall" and "Palace" and "Sheridan Hotel" and "Red Dog." That's not necessarily a weakness. Howard Hawks' Western ambiance was functional as well, but the towns look lived in. There were PEOPLE on the streets and potted plants in the hotel lobbies and Mexican blankets on the bunks. Here, it seems as if money was saved by not hiring enough atmosphere people. It's a ghost town. The same can be said of the interiors. They seem to have been built yesterday. When Mitchum slams a door behind him, a long vertical crack appears in the plaster next to the hinges. The wardrobe is generic and so is the make up. Mitchum's hair is thoroughly jelled and not a strand is out of place. Karen Sharpe wears a cunning 1950s pony tail.
Beginning with the title, it's evident that not a great deal of effort was put into the production, despite the presence of some reasonably good talent before the cameras. "Clint Tollinger", eh? Nobody is named Clint Tollinger. I spent sixty-five months in the Library of Congress and there never, ever was a cowboy or gun hand named Clint, Cole, Wade, or Matt. As a matter of fact, the four most commons names were Ebeneezer and Gouverneur and Chesterfield and Cadbury. All these statements are incontestable although they are outright lies.
Perversely, I liked the thing. There was an adult element, even if only hinted at. Mitchum actually ENJOYS killing thugs and burning down their establishments. His eyes glow with pleasure. I thought -- half-hoped -- that the movie would go in that direction but it decided to play safe. Nevertheless, a not-disappointing Western, like all rituals, a fixed point in a changing and depressing universe.