The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Andrew Dominik)

Released: September 21, 2007

Director: Andrew Dominik; Screenplay: Andrew Dominik based on the novel of the same name by Ron Hansen; Cinematography: Roger Deakins; Studio: Warner Bros.; Producers: Ridley Scott, Jules Daly, Brad Pitt, Dede Gardner, and David Valdes

Cast: Brad Pitt (Jesse James), Casey Affleck (Robert “Bob” Ford), Sam Rockwell (Charley Ford), Paul Schneider (Dick Liddil), Jeremy Renner (Wood Hite), Sam Shepard (Frank James), Garret Dillahunt (Ed Miller), Mary-Louise Parker (Zerelda “Zee” James), Zooey Deschanel (Dorothy Evans), Alison Elliot (Martha Bolton), Kailin See (Sarah Hite), James Carville (Gov. Thomas T. Crittenden), Michael Parks (Henry Craig), Ted Levine (Sheriff James Timberlake), Michael Copeman (Ed O’Kelley), Hugh Ross (Narrator)

- “Do you want to be like me or do you want to be me?”

Now we arrive at my final true contender for the top film of the 2000s. When I repeated numerous times that there were two films remaining in the decade that I put on the same lofty pedestal as a masterpiece like Mulholland Dr., I had to bite my tongue to not start discussing them right away. I managed to keep from spilling the beans on The New World and now, fortunately, we’ve reached 2007 and I can begin my gushing for this most lyrical of westerns. I had also dropped another slight hint as to the possible appearance of this film in the countdown in 1992’s review of Unforgiven. In praising that Eastwood film, I declared that it was at such a high level that there was only one other western released in the last 30 years that approached it. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (hereafter to be abbreviated as simply The Assassination of Jesse James), is that one western. And not only does it approach the greatness of Unforgiven, it is every bit an equal.

Before going straight into discussing it, though, I want to stop and acknowledge what an incredible year 2007 was for American cinema. It was a good year for movies around the world, but in particular American filmmakers trotted out one brilliant film after another. Two of the most acclaimed of the decade, No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood, were locked in a dead heat for Best Picture. Both routinely appear near the top of “best of the decade” polls. Celebrated films like Zodiac, Juno, Michael Clayton, and Eastern Promises would have been standouts in nearly any year. Pixar released another standout with Ratatouille. And if you want to cheat a bit and expand things to “English-speaking cinema” and include the British-led Atonement, the list becomes even more impressive. In my opinion, this is one of the finest years in American film in recent memory.


All of which may explain why a film like The Assassination of Jesse James received such little mainstream buzz in terms of awards, best films lists, and other superficial achievements. There were certainly critics who championed the film, and from doing a little surfing around the blogosphere I see that there are a considerable number of cineastes who rank it as high as I do. Still, there is no question that it was often lost in the shuffle of the great films listed above, frequently ignored in the debate that raged between No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood. Rest assured, there is no debate or indecision here. In a year that could have been a major headache to choose a single top film, The Assassination of Jesse James makes the selection a no-brainer. Not only do I think it’s the top film of 2007, but I would put it in the top two or three of the decade and equally as high on a personal all-time westerns list.

Andrew Dominik’s film is a western in setting and subject matter, but not necessarily in the traditional style. To be sure, it contains a few sequences of customary gunplay and tough guy machismo, but these are spaced intermittently across the nearly three-hour runtime. Normally a western without shootouts is like a comedy without jokes, but the story adapted from Ron Hansen’s novel is not concerned with the actual violence and robberies of Jesse James and his gang. There is no need to continually showcase violent sequences. It is rightfully assumed that after seeing just a single spectacular train robbery, the audience is fully aware of the violence and ruthlessness that Jesse is capable of. Instead, the focus is on the myth that comes to surround everything about the notorious outlaw. It is hero worship played out in the nineteenth century, as a man who makes his living sticking up rail lines and killing those who get in his way has achieved celebrity status throughout the country. The plot unfolds as a psychoanalytic study of both the icon Jesse James and admirer Robert Ford. The closer Bob gets to his idol, the quicker the myth of the benevolent bandit begins to crumble.


The story opens as the gang of Jesse (Brad Pitt) and Frank (Sam Shepard) James assemble in preparation of a daring train robbery. Bob Ford (Casey Affleck), who has spent his entire adolescence following the exploits of the James brothers, approaches and begs both Jesse and Frank to let him come along on the raid. After being rebuffed by the cantankerous Frank, he manages to convince Jesse to allow him to join the gang. Helping his cause is the fact that his brother Charley (Sam Rockwell) is a longtime cohort. The actual robbery, taking place within the first fifteen minutes, might be the most spectacular sequence of the entire film. Cinematographer Roger Deakins is in complete control, using contrasting lights and shadows in constructing an eerie montage. The use of flickering lights and torches, creating dancing shadows in the nearby woods and playing across the vigilante masks of the gang contribute to a haunting atmosphere. Something as simple as tracking the front headlight of the approaching train, making it the only thing to pierce the blackness of the dark night, is brilliant in its simplicity.

The gang disperses after the robbery and the story follows them to various locations. Dick Liddil (Paul Schneider) and Jesse’s cousin Wood Hite (Jeremy Renner) travel to Kentucky to stay with James relatives. Charley travels to stay with the brothers’ widowed sister Martha (Alison Elliot). Bob, meanwhile, is on cloud nine when Jesse instructs him to stay back. Other gang members are immediately jealous and Bob basks in the minor distinction. Jesse slowly begins to learn what a hero he has long been to Bob. Growing up, Bob kept a shoebox full of James-related mementos, ranging from newspaper clippings to nickel books glorifying the outlaw. Jesse seems to keep Bob around out of a combination of enjoying the ego boost brought by having a young sycophant at hand and to use him as his personal gofer. But the closer Bob gets to his idol, the less enamored he remains. Far from the Robin Hood portrayed in the news clippings, he finds himself constantly on the receiving end of Jesse’s manic outbursts. He becomes a witness to the insecure, vindictive personality of a man on the run. This is not a glamorous life led by Jesse and his family. Forced to constantly move from one safe house to another, and always convinced that those closest to him are plotting his demise, Jesse manages to alienate someone who once looked up to him as a parishioner would a minister.


Aspiring to the same fame and celebrity as Jesse, Bob realizes that he will never achieve it by tagging along as a sidekick. Instead, he decides to get in touch with Police Commissioner Henry Craig (Michael Parks), declaring that he can lead the authorities to the most famous outlaw in the world. After striking an official deal with the governor of Missouri (James Carville), Bob also brings his brother Charley and Dick Liddil into the plot. The story then is converted into a cat and mouse game, as Bob maneuvers to stay close enough to Jesse to bring about his capture, but not reveal his intentions to the always-suspicious killer. The tension is heightened with each passing moment, as it eventually becomes clear that the two sides in the “struggle” are playing out a shadowboxing routine. Jesse seems to know that somebody in his gang has turned on him, but never directly acts on his suspicion. Bob and Charley remain in constant fear that Jesse will uncover their conspiracy, but feel themselves in too deep to turn back.

The title of the film gives away the end of the chess game, but I won’t reveal the exact mechanics of how it plays out. There is some irony in the title though, as Bob is not exactly portrayed as a coward. As a quirky, shifty person, yes, but not necessarily a coward. And Jesse is not the traditional romanticized outlaw seen as central characters of most westerns. He is hardly likable. Thus, at least in my mind, I never experienced much sympathy for the situation Jesse found himself in. The final chapter to the story serves as a coda in the life of the man who killed Jesse James. Believing that this feat would lead him to great fame and fortune, Bob is instead haunted by the entire episode, earning a living by reenacting the assassination in a stage play. Labeled a coward and a traitor, he becomes one of the most despised personalities in the country.

The most obvious comparison for a film like this would be with a filmmaker that I have praised quite a bit recently – Terrence Malick. Visually, there are a number of similarities to Malick’s Days of Heaven. I don’t know enough about the mechanics to say whether the films are similar in technical respects, but The Assassination often has scenic shots of nature that are similar to those in Days of Heaven. Additionally, it adopts a pace similar to that found in all of Malick’s work, moving quite leisurely, completely unconcerned with how long it takes the story to progress. The thing that Dominik’s screenplay possesses that might appeal to a larger audience than Malick films is the ability to guide the leisurely pace toward tension-filled high points. There are a number of scenes that are as intense as anything you’ll find in a top-notch thriller. In particular, I think that the dinner sequence, when Jesse unexpectedly drops in on the Ford brothers at their sister’s home, to be one of the finest in the film. As Jesse and Charley laugh at Bob for his hero worship as a young boy, the friction builds. Everyone there is terrified of saying the wrong word that will set Jesse off. But after the nonstop prodding from the outlaw, Bob becomes so incensed that he can’t resist the urge to respond. There is also a memorable scene when Jesse is standing on a frozen lake, asking Charley if he ever considered suicide. As he does this, he begins firing rounds from his six-shooter into the ice. With each shot, you see Charley wince in fear that the entire pond of ice is going to collapse beneath them.


The other understandable parallel to Malick is due to the heavy use of narration. This is probably the most criticized element of the entire film. Many are turned off by narration of any kind, but in this instance there are actual specific complaints about the voice-overs that guide the viewer. The fact that some of the narration describes specific actions, in some cases even as they are being performed on-screen, led certain critics to liken it to watching an audio book being read. I couldn’t disagree more, and in fact I think that the narration is fitting. Why do I say this? Because even when it is doing something that could be incredibly annoying, such as describing action as we watch it, the language is overly literary and flowery. What this means is, it sounds like it is being read from a pulp or dime novel about Jesse James that would have been published in that era. I think it corresponds perfectly to the overall tone of the film.

I already mentioned the train robbery, but Roger Deakins deserves praise for more than just this single sequence. Deakins might be the MVP of the entire year in film, as not only is he responsible for the photography here but also in the Coen Brothers’ Best Picture winner No Country for Old Men. Both of his efforts were nominated for the Academy Award for Best Picture, but lost to There Will Be Blood (oddly enough, Deakins is a startling 0-8 at the Oscars). I understand how meaningless such awards ultimately are, but it’s impressive to be nominated twice in the same category in a single year. Had I been the final arbiter, Deakins would have won the honor for The Assassination of Jesse James. I don’t know how else to describe the cinematography except to call it beautifully bleak. The outdoor shots are expansive and picturesque, but always maintain a desolate air about them. The Days of Heaven comparison is apt, except that everything appears to take place in under an overcast sky rather than at the “magic hour.”


Deakins is the consummate pro, someone who is easy to take for granted because you always expect superior work from him. The same thing could even be said about Brad Pitt. While not necessarily considered the most talented actor in Hollywood, he does consistently turn out solid performances. Here, his turn as Jesse James comes off much better than I expected going in. I honestly thought it had disaster written all over it, but he shines as the calculating gunman. Hopefully it doesn’t seem like I’m giving Pitt short shrift, but the most satisfying thing about the film is a pair of revelatory performances. The first is that of the director, Andrew Dominik. I have not seen his debut film, 2000’s Chopper, but by all accounts there was nothing there to indicate that he would come up with something like this in his sophomore effort. It takes confidence to make a film like this, one that is certain to alienate a lot of viewers. He does it assertively and in my opinion never falters. The other is Casey Affleck. Affleck is at times annoying, funny, neurotic, lovable – in short, the perfect Bob Ford. He is a multifaceted person who develops into a most unlikely lead character.

All this time and not even a mention of the unorthodox score from Nick Cave and Warren Ellis that is able to get under your skin at the most tense moments. This just goes to show how much there is to explore in this film and how rewarding it can be on repeat viewings. I just hope that Dominik stays active and doesn’t begin releasing movies at a Malick-like pace. Get to work, Andrew!

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 2007: I’ve already listed a number of films from what I consider to be a monstrous year in film. My favorites are mostly in American cinema, but I’ll go ahead and try and list what would be the rest of my Top 10.

2. Zodiac (David Fincher) – My favorite Fincher film
3. There Will Be Blood (Paul Thomas Anderson) – My favorite PTA film
4. Eastern Promises (David Cronenberg) - My favorite Cronenberg film
5. No Country for Old Men (Coen Brothers)
6. The Counterfeiters (Stefan Ruzowitsky)
7. Gone Baby Gone (Ben Affleck)
8. Atonement (Joe Wright)
9. Juno (Jason Reitman)
10. Michael Clayton (Tony Gilroy)

There are some obvious omissions, particularly not having seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and also highlighting my lack of familiarity with Pixar in not having seen Ratatouille.

1992: Unforgiven (Clint Eastwood)

Released: August 7, 1992

Director: Clint Eastwood; Screenplay: David Webb Peoples; Cinematography: Jack N. Green; Studio: Warner Bros.; Producer: Clint Eastwood

Cast: Clint Eastwood (Will Munny), Gene Hackman (Little Bill Daggett), Morgan Freeman (Ned Logan), Richard Harris (English Bob), Jaimz Woolvett (The Schofield Kid), Saul Rubinek (W.W. Beauchamp), Frances Fisher (Strawberry Alice), Anna Levine (Delilah Fitzgerald), David Mucci (Quick Mike), Rob Campbell (Davey Bunting), Anthony James (Skinny Dubois)

- “Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it…”

Back at 1959 in this countdown when I selected Rio Bravo as my top choice, I said that great Howard Hawks film was one of the two finest westerns that I had ever seen. I resisted the urge to give away what I thought the other one might be, but it should be no mystery at this point. Clint Eastwood played key roles in a number of classic westerns, but I don’t think that he ever starred in or directed a greater movie than Unforgiven. It is an almost formulaic analysis of this 1992 Best Picture winner to declare it to be a deconstruction of the myths surrounding the western in general and the persona of Eastwood in particular. But I think it still holds true, making it a fascinating document for that reason alone. There are not many instances that I know of where a director or artist directly addresses the persona that has been created around him and then summarily dismantled it.

It is necessary to have an understanding of the arc of Clint Eastwood’s career, which due to his iconic status is something that everyone is at least reasonably familiar with. This is a man whose reputation was built on ultimate tough guy roles – The Man With No Name in the trilogy by Sergio Leone and as the definitive hardened cop Harry Callahan in the Dirty Harry series. These are characters known for their bravado, for a shoot first ask questions later attitude, that live by the belief that there is never a problem that violence cannot solve. Both Blondie and Dirty Harry personify the image of a good guy who does not hesitate to use violence when they – and they alone – deem it necessary to accomplish something. Similar such conventions long reigned in the entire western genre. This is a world where there are clearly defined heroes and villains. The good guys operate in a world of fair fights and showdowns, never shirking from violence when it is necessary to take down the repulsive bad guys. The bad guys are obvious, with no question as to their evil motives or reprehensible actions.


Unforgiven upends such mythology by showing that never are (and never were) things as cut and dry as Hollywood has traditionally tried to make them.

Eastwood stars as William Munny, a former outlaw who fell in love with a woman who steered him toward the straight and narrow. Leaving his life as a gunslinger, Munny retires to his own land where he tries to make an honest living as a hog farmer. Tragedy strikes soon after they have two children as his wife dies from disease and Munny quickly discovers that he is not suited to be a farmer. He soldiers on, squeezing out a meager living, while trying to forget his past as the country’s most feared badman. This new persona is upset when a young man calling himself the Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvett) rides to his farm and asks him for help on a bounty. In the town of Big Whiskey, Wyoming, there is a $1,000 reward for anyone that kills two men who cut up an innocent prostitute. Having had Munny’s reputation recited to him by an uncle, The Kid approaches William and proposes a fifty-fifty split of the reward for his help. Having been away from such ways for so long, Munny initially declines. But after realizing that the lives of his children are not going to improve as long as he remains a farmer, he ultimately decides to join The Kid. In the process, he enlists the help of his former partner Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman), who also had been a retired farmer for a number of years.


What they are unaware of is what is waiting for them in Big Whiskey. The sheriff of the town, Little Bill (Gene Hackman), is the ultimate law and order officer. There is no gray area for him – the law is meant to be followed no matter what and his job is to ensure that such compliance is enforced. Little Bill quickly learns of the bounty that has been raised by a number of the town’s prostitutes and decides that he’ll have to take care of whatever cowboys and bounty hunters try to come and claim it. He has no intention of allowing such lawlessness to take place on his watch. Not realizing this to be the case, Will, Ned and the Schofield Kid casually ride into town and come into immediate conflict with Little Bill.

Traditional western conventions are not simply upended throughout the film, but are completely obliterated. As much as credit should go to Eastwood and his direction, much praise also has to be given to writer David Webb Peoples. He created a story in which precisely distinguishing the bad guys from the good can be quite complicated. Little Bill, our nominal villain, at the basest level is a sheriff who is extremely committed to see his job carried out properly. Eventually his methods certainly become questionable – and he lives up to the moniker of “villain” – but initially his intention is actually what one would want from an officer of the law. Because the viewer follows the story from the perspective of Will – meaning of course, following the iconic Eastwood – it becomes easy to side with Munny and his compatriots as those to root for. As the story progresses, though, it is gradually revealed that the history of the life of William Munny is nothing short of repugnant. He was a womanizer and alcoholic. He is routinely referred to as a “killer of women and children” and someone who never hesitated to shoot someone for the slightest offense – and do so from behind if necessary. For the majority of his life, Munny has been a horrible, horrible person.


What becomes so endearing about the William Munny character is his ability to recognize these facts. He knows that for most of his life he has been a desperado and seems to genuinely wish to put these terrible episodes behind him. This is what he was attempting to do in transforming himself into a farmer – he wanted to become a respectable human being. But it becomes impossible for him to escape his past. All the years of lawlessness, of robberies, of killings, cannot be buried no matter how far away he distances himself. The violence is inescapable.

And it is here that Eastwood completely dismantles the persona of the characters that made him famous. In those cases, the men rode into town and did what they needed to do, shot who they needed to shoot, killed who they needed to kill and then turned and rode into the sunset. Eastwood uses Will Munny to show that this is impossible. No one participates in violence like this and turns to ride away completely unscathed. Munny is the ultimate example of the fact that there is always a cost to such violence. When he is forced to revert to his old ways in order to finish his job and stand up to Little Bill, there is not the same triumphant feeling that is commonly found in the climaxes of John Ford or other classic westerns. Instead, there is an overriding sense of sadness. The sadness comes from realizing that in transforming himself back into the gunslinger of his past, Munny is giving up all the personal progress that he hoped for. The violence may serve him in this instance, but it cements the fact that his dream of being a peaceful father and farmer will never happen. His past is simply too much to overcome, the brutality and callousness that made him the most feared outlaw of his day is too much an integral part of who he is.

The interesting thing about the commentary on violence is the double-edge of such an analysis. This is because it’s impossible to deny the fact that Will’s use of violence ultimately gets what he set out for – he collects the reward and turns to ride home and also sees revenge carried out on Little Bill. So I don’t think that the message is intended to be that violence does not accomplish anything, as it clearly does. Or that violence should never, ever be utilized, because if ever there were circumstances where it would be understandable to lash out it would be after seeing your best friend tortured and killed and then hung in a storefront. What I take from it is this: that there is absolutely nothing romantic about the use of violence and if one does resort to it, be prepared to pay a heavy price in the process regardless of the result. I am always struck by how sad it is when the trio finally catches up with Davey (Rob Campbell) and gun him down, seeing the anguish of both Ned and Will.


I’ve spent little time on applauding individual performances or technical achievements and instead focused on themes and analysis, but I don’t know what I can say beyond what is routinely repeated about the performances. They are all-around exemplary. Gene Hackman deservedly took home an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. Morgan Freeman is the consummate pro, proving once again that he has that Robert Duvall-like quality of being able to play any character in any type of film. Eastwood is outstanding as Will Munny, but probably deserves more recognition for his role as the director. The soundtrack from Lennie Niehaus is at times sparse, but perfectly fits the mood of the story. Typing this now I can picture the beautiful opening theme being played as Will, Ned and the Schofield Kid ride across the country. The amazing thing is that the movie manages to be greater even than these outstanding individual parts.

I also cannot end this without at least mentioning how incredible I think that the final shootout scene at the saloon is. I know of no other scene that is able to combine two such antithetical reactions. On one hand it plays on the traditional western idea of nothing being more cool – or dare I say badass – than someone walking into a gunfight horribly outnumbered and dropping everyone who opposes him. Even I fall for it every time, smirking whenever Eastwood delivers blunt lines like “Well, he should have armed himself if he’s going to decorate his saloon with my friend.” At the same time, the entire sequence breaks my heart as I realize what all of this means to Will Munny the man and am reminded of what he is losing. It’s a powerful scene however you look at it.

I love this movie… I don’t know what else I can say about it. Perhaps I’m gushing, but this is a movie that had an impact on me similar to Goodfellas. It’s one of those “signpost” films that have contributed significantly to who I am as a movie fan. This is the measuring stick I use to judge all contemporary westerns against and I’ve only seen one since Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid – meaning between 1974 and the present – that has even come close to the level of Unforgiven. That’s how highly I think of it.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1992: Another great year in the early 90s. There are a few films in 1992 that I would like to circle back to and write about after the countdown concludes. My favorite Michael Mann film is The Last of the Mohicans, another movie that has an exquisitely executed climax. While I don’t enjoy it as much as I did when I first saw it, I still think that Quentin Tarantino’s debut film Reservoir Dogs is entertaining throughout and is one of the most influential films of the decade. Glengarry Glen Ross (James Foley) contains another amazing performance from Jack Lemmon and the best of the writing of David Mamet. I have always felt that Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula is atmospheric and aside from a few casting missteps is very well done. John Woo made an outstanding if over the top action film in Hard Boiled. Robert Altman’s The Player is a funny, mysterious drama. And a personal favorite, while maybe not in the same artistic category as the other films mentioned, is My Cousin Vinny (Jonathan Lynn). It’s hilarious.

1973: Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (Sam Peckinpah)

Released: May 23, 1973

Director: Sam Peckinpah; Screenplay: Rudy Wurlitzer; Cinematography: John Coquillon; Studio: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (original release), Warner Bros. (DVD); Producer: Gordon Carroll

Cast: James Coburn (Sheriff Pat Garrett), Kris Kristofferson (Billy the Kid), Bob Dylan (Alias), Richard Jaeckel (Sheriff Kip McKinney), Slim Pickens (Sheriff Colin Baker), Katy Jurado (Mrs. Baker), Chill Willis (Lemuel), Jason Robards (Governor Lew Wallace), R. G. Armstrong (Dept. Sheriff Bob Ollinger), Jack Elam (Alamosa Bill), Matt Clark (Dept. Sheriff J.W. Bell), Emilio Fernandez (Paco), Barry Sullivan (John Chisum)

- "Garrett: It... feels like times have changed.
The Kid: Times maybe, but not me."

There is one indelible sequence that remains with me from this film, almost haunts me really. Not haunts in the sense of scaring me or making me terrified, but leaving me in awe of how powerful an image can be. Amazingly, it’s not even an event that bears much significance in the central game of cat-and-mouse between the two titled characters. It is the walk to his death by Sheriff Colin Baker, played by veteran actor Slim Pickens. Mortally wounded while assisting Pat Garrett in a shootout, it as if Baker knows that that this will be the end. Mounting all of his strength, he begins to slowly stumble away from the site of the shooting, walking into the the colorful horizon toward a stream. Nearby, his wife sees him taking his final steps and lets out a wail, but nothing can stop the determined Baker on his death march. All of this action is set the to the strains of one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door,” for which there could have not have been a more appropriate use. This scene epitomizes what made me fall in love with this film – the lyrical beauty of it all. For a director known for his excessive violence and hardened personality, this scene was the one that made me realize that there was more to the work of Sam Peckinpah than is commonly cited.


Much maligned upon its release, the troubles and pitfalls experienced during shooting and post-production are legendary. Filming was a near disaster, with many crew members catching the flu and technical difficulties being commonplace. Peckinpah continually clashed with MGM president James Aubrey, asking for both extra time and money that Aubrey was unwilling to grant. The director soldiered on, doing his best to see his own vision realized, which meant drafting local Mexican citizens to work as crew members and shooting some scenes without Aubrey’s knowledge. All of this meant that the movie was finished weeks after its expected completion date and ran well over budget. Still, despite all the trouble, Peckinpah felt that his original cut of the movie was among the finest films that he had ever made. As was to be expected, Aubrey disagreed and demanded that certain sequences in the film be removed. With control of MGM, Aubrey ultimately won, taking over post-production and significantly trimming the length. Peckinpah himself thought so little of the cut eventually released by the studio that he sued MGM in order to have his name removed from the credits.

Thankfully, rumors surrounding alternate cuts of the film continued to swirl in Hollywood and among movie fans, and eventually such versions closer to the original vision of Peckinpah would be released. In 1988, Turner Entertainment released a director’s cut of the film, restoring it to 122 minutes in length and causing many detractors of the film to reevaluate its merits. Later, in 2005, a DVD version would combine certain elements of both the theatrical release and the 1988 rerelease, resulting in a version slightly shorter in length than the director’s cut, but touted as being as close to the vision of Peckinpah as could be reached. It’s worth pointing out that in this write-up, I’m speaking to the 1988 and 2005 versions of the film. There is debate among which of the two is superior, but both are amazing films. Both include key elements that were absent in the theatrical version that elevate the film to a masterpiece in my opinion. If forced to choose, I would definitely say that the 1988 version is superior to all other cuts, but either of the two are worth seeing for someone watching for the first time. It’s also worth noting that I’ve come to this film very recently, having watched the two latest versions only within the last month or two and immediately fell in love with it. For someone who has never been a huge Peckinpah fan, even I was shocked at how quickly I was drawn to it.


The story, not surprisingly based on its very literal title, follows the final days of Billy the Kid (Kris Kristofferson), the most famous of western outlaws in the late 1870s and 80s. Among his many comrades and friends is Pat Garrett (James Coburn), who once rode with The Kid but has now been hired as sheriff in order to clear him out of the New Mexico territory. With anyone at all familiar with western mythology or the legend of Billy the Kid, the ultimate conclusion of the story is never in doubt – Garret shot and killed the outlaw at Fort Sumner in 1881. The drama and tension of the story comes from the uncertainty over Garrett’s own conviction to follow through on the job that he was hired to perform. Early in the film, there is a scene in which Garrett warns Billy that he is now the sheriff and that he intends to rid New Mexico of him, whether that means chasing him out of the territory or killing him. It is as if Garrett is pleading with his old pal to leave for Old Mexico and not to make him have to kill him. He is telling him, like a father would a son, that the days of the renegade outlaw are over. But Billy, brash as always, refuses to heed the warning.


For all of the moments of bloodshed and shootouts that are found whenever Peckinpah is in the director’s seat, things are at times quite leisurely. This lilting pace gives the film a very dreamlike quality, which works perfectly and very much appealed to me. In this sense, the 1988 version of the film gets it right by inserting key sequences at the beginning and end of the film. In these sequences, we see an aged Pat Garrett as he is ambushed and killed. In the midst of the gunfire that will claim his life, the picture jumps back and forth to Garrett having flashbacks of his friendship with Billy the Kid. The ’88 version closes with similar shots of Garrett’s death, while the 2005 version uses only the flashback sequence in the opening. Both work, in my opinion, as it is necessary to set the proper tone for the dreamy feeling of the entire film -- although, admittedly, the 1988 is probably the better version. Also helping in creating the dreamlike effect is the fact that the strains of Bob Dylan’s soundtrack is always to be heard in the background, accentuating the beauty of shots created by Peckinpah and cinematographer John Coquillon. The movie in turn flows like the slow-moving river that Slim Pickens marches toward in his death scene, as if the audience is being bounced from one fleeting memory to another on the journey toward the end of the outlaw era.


While not earth-shattering, the performances are universally solid and the two leads give Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid very distinct and vibrant personalities. As played by Coburn, Garrett is the brooding ex-gunman who longs to be seen as a professional. In the Kid, Kristofferson plays him as impetuous as the historical record seems to indicate, while at the same time making the outlaw very likable. But in the end, the individual performances are not what is most striking about the overall production. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, it’s the dreamlike quality and the sense that you are watching a requiem mass for a man and an era that makes it for me. I have often seen Pat Garret and Billy the Kid referred to as a revisionist western, but I think that this is something of a misnomer, as it has a different feel from other films that are categorized as such. To me, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid as brought to life by Peckinpah actually are romantic figures, but ones that have simply outlived their time and usefulness.

I may be partial due to a lifelong fascination with Billy the Kid, but I don’t hesitate in declaring this to be the finest work that I have seen from Sam Peckinpah. If you haven’t seen the two restored cuts of the film, you owe it to yourself to at least give them a shot. Chances are, they still will not be for everyone, but they are worth seeing for any fans of Peckinpah or westerns in general.

Rating: 10/10 (It was a 9 until I watched it again shortly before posting this and it got upped -- it's that great of an experience for me.)

Other Contenders for 1973: Had I not seen Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid before I got to this year in the countdown, there is really no doubt in my mind that George Lucas’ American Graffiti would have been my selection. I’m a sucker for well done nostalgia films and that one fits the bill perfectly. Lucas would go on to bigger blockbusters, but in my opinion he would never direct another film to equal American Graffiti. This is another year of many solid films, all bunched together behind the Peckinpah. Clint Eastwood’s High Plains Drifter, the first western that the icon ever directed, is outstanding. Robert Altman’s take on the Philip Marlow character in The Long Goodbye is a must see. George Roy Hill made another Newman-Redford collaboration with The Sting, which I always find entertaining. My favorite Peter Bogdanovich movie is actually Paper Moon, which I know puts me in the minority. Martin Scorsese makes his first great gangster film with Mean Streets, and while I don’t rate it quite as highly as some others, it’s still one that needs to be seen. Don’t Look Now, from Nicholas Roeg, is at times chilling. And finally, The Spirit of the Beehive, from director Victor Erice, is one I’ve just recently seen but it’s quite good.

One movie I’ll have to point out that I’m not including is Badlands from Terrence Malick. Malick is among a handful of my favorite directors, but I have the unique opinion of his films that he has actually improved with each release, so I don’t rate Badlands as highly as most Malick enthusiasts.

All in all, though, a very deep year.

1971: McCabe & Mrs. Miller (Robert Altman)

Released: June 24, 1971

Director: Robert Altman; Screenplay: Robert Altman and Brian McKay, based on the novel by Edmund Naughton; Cinematography: Vilmos Zsigmond; Studio: Warner Bros.; Producers: Mitchell Brower and David Foster

Cast: Warren Beatty (John McCabe), Julie Christie (Constance Miller), Rene Auberjonois (Sheehan), William Devane (The Lawyer), John Schuck (Smalley), Corey Fisher (Mr. Elliot), Bert Remsen (Bart Coyle), Shelley Duvall (Ida Coyle), Keith Carradine (Cowboy), Michael Murphy (Sears), High Millais (Butler)

[NOTE: This was the first review ever written for this blog, and is re-posted here with only minor alterations. In reading back through it, I like to think that my writing for the site has improved somewhat, but I do stand by this write-up and think it captures what appeals to me so much about this film. I have added an "Other Contenders" section at the end to fit with the Year's Best Countdown, but other than that have kept the original review intact.]

The 1970s output of director Robert Altman is not only rightfully celebrated for its excellence but also because of the versatility he displayed in the various genres he tackled, and in many cases deconstructed, with his work. Over the short time span between 1970 and 1975, Altman was nothing short of prolific. During this time he produced his landmark anti-war film M*A*S*H, a complete re-working of the classic Philip Marlowe private eye character in The Long Goodbye, and a film that certainly left an impact on future generations of directors (here’s looking at you Paul Thomas Anderson) with the release of 1975’s Nashville. However the best movie he made during this incredibly creative period may very well be this exceptional 1971 release.

McCabe & Mrs. Miller is unique from nearly any western to come before it. Until the climax of the film, it is essentially free from the usual macho, tough guy bravado and wild shootouts that have long been staples of the genre. It moves at a pace that could be described as lumbering, focusing more on the thoughts and actions of gambler John McCabe than on action to propel the storyline. To refer to this as an anti-western would be cliché, but as the viewer is drawn into the movie it becomes apparent that the picture being painted of the settling of the American frontier is not one that is very pleasant for anyone involved.

The story centers on gambler and entrepreneur John McCabe (Warren Beatty), who rides into the upstart mining town of Providence City. With the reputation of a former gunslinger, McCabe is able to angle himself into the purchase of property on which he plans to build a saloon to house everything from gambling and drinking to a whorehouse. In the process of constructing his business, McCabe meets Constance (Mrs.) Miller (Julie Christie), a veteran madam who convinces him that the real money is in creating a high-class establishment with fine women and equally fine prices. Mrs. Miller manages to convince him that she is precisely the person who can help him create and run the business, promising to import and manage the women herself. After taking her in as a partner, McCabe quickly establishes himself as the leading businessman in town.

The problems start for McCabe when a large mining company begins to make overtures about buying out all of McCabe’s interests in Providence City. Continually rejecting their tempting offers, McCabe believes that he is playing hardball in negotiations, expecting the miners to begin increasing their offers. Instead, the mining company decides to take the business by force, turning the matter over to a mercenary of sorts to see that McCabe is pushed out. On top of this, McCabe’s life is further complicated by the fact that he has fallen in love with Mrs. Miller. McCabe resists Miller’s urgings to leave Providence City and start over in a new town, leading to his inevitable showdown with the mining mercenaries.


The overwhelming sense of griminess and filth is felt throughout the entire movie. Providence City is not like the settings in a John Ford or Howard Hawks western. The photography from cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond is dark and extremely gloomy. The town is filthy, full of puddles, mud, and grime. Snow seems to fall at nearly all times. It works to create quite a brooding atmosphere, but one that fits perfectly with the pacing of the film and laid-back nature of the characters. The strength of Zsigmond's work cannot be exaggerated. There are certain shots in the film that are stunning and gorgeous. These are contrasted with the filth and dirt described above and create an unsettling feeling to all of the visuals.

The fact that there is not “action” in the traditional sense for most of the film adds to the dream-like quality. The film simply flows. McCabe is a man who is on a journey to try and find a place of his own, where he can put down roots and escape his “Pudgy” McCabe persona from the past. This is driven home in the scenes of him traveling in the stark Northwestern landscape, set to the soundtrack created by Leonard Cohen. Is he really simply trying to up the ante with the mining company or is he hesitant to sell his business because he appears to have finally found a place of his own where he can be successful? I think that is open for debate, as he only willingly looks to make a deal once he recognizes the forces that have been aligned against him. The gloominess is repeatedly broken up by lighthearted moments and quips, usually coming from McCabe himself. Things like his trademark line of “If a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his ass so much” manage to lighten things, but never to the point where you forget that there is a distinct feeling of doom hanging over the dealings of John McCabe.

This is my favorite performance from Warren Beatty. He plays the character to perfection. He is equally adept at showing McCabe to be an enterprising businessman and in displaying the idiosyncrasies of the character – things like drinking his double whiskey with an added raw egg or the constant conversations that he has with himself. It is an interesting lead character in a Western, as it's a character that is rumored to be a former gunslinger, but not someone who ever comes off as believable in the role. In addition to the persona that McCabe uses to push himself to the top of business in the town, Beatty is able to show how tenuous a grasp that McCabe truly has over his own emotions and situation.

While I don't intend to give away all the details as to how the movie plays out, this article would be incomplete without mentioning the stunning finish to the film. McCabe recognizes that the three mercenaries sent by the mining company are making their way across the town in order to kill him. At over twenty minutes in length, this cat-and-mouse game played out in a heavy snow storm is incredible to watch. Filmed without any soundtrack or background music, it is just with the sounds of the men crunching through the elements and trying to get the drop on the other. It is truly an iconic sequence of events and the final frames of the film are unforgettable.


As already mentioned, Robert Altman made a number of outstanding films over the course of his career, but this is without question my personal favorite. Although it is different from traditional westerns, it is as atmospheric in its own unique way as any other film in the genre. Equal parts humorous and tragic, Altman manages to draw you deep into the story and keep you hoping that things do not turn out as desolately as you recognize they likely will.

Rating: 9/10

Other Contenders for 1971: A really solid year in 1971, if not quite reaching the heights of the top films in surrounding years. The two closest contenders for me in this year are actually two Shakespeare adaptations. I have to confess that I've been on a Shakespeare on film binge lately, but I still think that these are outstanding movies regardless. Grigori Kozintsev has already made this countdown with a Shakespeare adaptation with 1964's Hamlet and he also repeated the feat with this year's King Lear. I slightly prefer the Hamlet, but this one is excellent as well. The other one given serious consideration was Roman Polanski's Macbeth. It's very bloody and violent, which is to be expected considering this time period in Polanski's life. But Macbeth is a story that is very bloody and violent even in its original form, so it fits.

Some others from 1971 that I really like: The French Connection (William Friedkin), Dirty Harry (Don Siegel), and Murmur of the Heart (Louis Malle). And, due entirely to the love of this film by Sam Juliano, I did revisit The Last Picture Show (Peter Bogdanovich) for this countdown and had a more positive experience with it than I had in the past. I still don't consider it at the same level as Sam and most others do, but I can now say that I like it. Does this make me a hypocrite? Possibly, but I think it's fair for tastes to change over time.

I dislike Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange like no other, so I won't devote much time to it outside of recognizing it's place in cinematic history and that I am in the _extreme_ minority with this opinion of the film.

1968: Once Upon a Time in the West (Sergio Leone)

Released: December 21, 1968 (Italy)

a.k.a.: C’era una volta il West

Director: Sergio Leone; Screenplay: Sergio Leone and Sergio Donati based on the story by Sergio Leone, Dario Argento and Bernardo Bertolucci; Cinematography: Tonino Delli Colli; Studios: Finanzia San Marco, Rafran Cinematografica, Paramount Pictures; Producer: Fulvio Morsella; Executive Producer: Bino Cicogna; Music: Ennio Morricone

Cast: Henry Fonda (Frank), Claudia Cardinale (Jill McBain), Jason Robards (Cheyenne), Charles Bronson (Harmonica), Gabriele Ferzetti (Morton), Paolo Stoppa (Sam), Woody Strode (Stony), Jack Elam (Snaky), Keenan Wynn (Sheriff), Frank Wolff (Brett McBain)

Yes, I know that this one debuted in the United States and worldwide in 1969, but in sticking with my original guidelines in choosing my #1 for each year, I am going with the earliest release date. By that criterion, Once Upon a Time in the West becomes a 1968 movie and saves me the giant migraine that would undoubtedly set in if I had would be forced to choose between this western classic and the film that I have chosen for 1969 (but more on that in two days!).

I have a unique history with the films of Sergio Leone, particularly his westerns. The first movie of Leone’s that I ever watched was actually his final film Once Upon a Time in America. This one is known to be something of an acquired taste, but I loved it from the start. His westerns, however, I did not warm to immediately. I decided that I would go through them chronologically, so I watched the entire Man With No Name trilogy, going into it with unbelievably high expectations. Upon first viewing, I have to admit that I was somewhat underwhelmed. I liked them, but not to the extent that I had been led to believe that I would. This meant that as I went into Once Upon a Time in the West, I expected a similar reaction. Instead, I quickly realized that this was what I was originally expecting of a Sergio Leone western. It was an engrossing experience.


Following multiple characters through storylines that are woven together into one cohesive narrative, Leone depicts the once Wild West becoming civilized. The movie begins with an iconic opening scene in which three men wait at a train station to kill the enigmatic Harmonica (Charles Bronson) when he gets off of the train. Executed with leisurely pacing that makes the buildup more tense, it culminates in a shootout that sees Harmonica kill all three men before continuing on his journey. Around the same time, Brett McBain (Frank Wolff) waits with his children on the desolate farmland for the arrival of his new wife. Before she can arrive, however, the family is massacred by a group of hired outlaws led by the notorious Frank (Henry Fonda). Frank and his men are hired by the railroad baron Morton (Gabriele Ferzetti), who covets the McBain farm in order to complete his vision of a railroad all the way to the Pacific. In order to conceal who is behind the massacre, Frank attempts to plant evidence that will lay the blame at the feet of another outlaw, the recently escaped Cheyenne (Jason Robards). Eventually, Cheyenne and Harmonica come together in opposition to Frank, protecting Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale) when she becomes entwined in the chaos.


To go much further with a plot summary would require a lengthy essay. Suffice it to say that the story is epic in scope and plays like an elegy to the Old West that Leone and other legendary directors had created in their films. In Frank, you have the outlaw gunslinger who realizes that the days of he and his compatriots are quickly coming to an end. He is scrambling desperately to ensure that he remains important and that he maintains a line of work that will utilize his coldblooded skill set. Frank works for Morton, despite the fact that men like Morton are the root cause of making Frank obsolete. Cheyenne is in a similar position, in that as an outlaw he is finding it impossible to maneuver as he once did. His past reputation allows him to be set up by Frank, leaving him a man with a bounty on his head and all the dangers that entails. Harmonica’s entire life has been consumed by a vendetta, a commonly depicted occurrence in western tales. And sometimes overlooked, is how the journey of Jill McBain is illustrative of the death of the Old West. For so long the west represented a land where people had the ability to start over; where an individual’s history could be overcome. Jill is a woman that is moving to the west in search of such a new beginning, hoping to forget her past as a prostitute in New Orleans. Instead, she is quickly jolted into the reality that such an option is no longer viable and is plunged into the resulting chaos.

The image of the Old West has come full circle, from the mythology of John Ford all the way to the apparent end of an era in Once Upon a Time in the West. Leone even went to Monument Valley, the favorite location for John Ford, and filmed breathtaking scenes of Jill being driven to the McBain farm. I don’t want to extend this metaphor too far, so I am in no way insinuating that this would be the last of the great western movies – far from it, as great westerns have continued to be made until the present, if at a less consistent pace. But it is fascinating to see Sergio Leone – a man who loved westerns to the point that in preparation for this film he, Bernardo Bertolucci and Dario Argento embarked on a marathon of classic westerns in order to spark ideas – crafting a movie that could almost serve as a final chapter in a history of the west.


The movie is a collaborative effort that emerges even greater than the sum of its parts. In terms of acting, what elevates the film for me is the interaction between the characters and the smooth transitions that weave different strands of the plot together. My main gripe in other Leone westerns is that they can sometimes play like a series of vignettes, where individual scenes stand alone rather than working cohesively as one film. This is never an issue in Once Upon a Time in the West – things might feel overly-sprawling at times, but they are always brought back in sync. This is why I say that the film is a collaborative effort, as Leone and the other writers deserve credit, but so too do the actors. The casting of Henry Fonda, an All-American icon, as the ruthless Frank must have been a head-scratcher at the time. Even Fonda was reticent, as he initially turned down the role. However, he would soon come to regard it as among his finest performances, and I defy anyone to argue otherwise. The other performances each contribute their own unique flavor to the film. Robards as Cheyenne adds many lighthearted moments. Harmonica, played perfectly by Charles Bronson, is the brooding enigma that adds mystery to it all. Basically, what I’ve said in a rather long-winded way is that the movie flows remarkably well for a film this epic in scope and length.

Still, for all of the deserved praise of those on-screen, things would not be the same without those who contributed behind the camera. I go back and forth on what is my favorite Sergio Leone film, but this one is never lower than #2. It is amazing to think that if Leone had had his way, he would have abandoned westerns after the Dollars Trilogy and moved on to other projects. The studios wanted to cash in on his western appeal and convinced him to make another. Thankfully, Leone acquiesced and this was the result. He had already proven himself to be a director of immaculate visual style and his collaboration with cinematographer Tonino Delli Colli was successful on the earlier The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. In this film they outdid even that effort, with sweeping pans and visual flourishes that rival anything ever done in the genre.

And then there is Ennio Morricone. He had already created the popular scores for the Dollars Trilogy and he would go on to compose outstanding work for decades to come. But I continue to believe that this is the finest score that he ever composed. An equally strong claim can be made that this isn’t even the best score that Morricone wrote for a Leone film, let alone in his entire career, but that just shows how strong his overall body of work is. The music is spectacular, and the memorable melody of the title song is one that I continually have stuck in my head after watching.

Rating: 9/10

Other Contenders for 1968: This is a down year for my tastes, with the Leone film standing far, far ahead of any other contenders. The other films that were given serious consideration were actually very few, but they would be: Rosemary's Baby (Roman Polanski), The Hour of the Wolf (Ingmar Bergman) The Bride Wore Black (Francois Truffaut), The Lion in Winter (Anthony Harvey).

My guess would be that Stanley Kubrick's landmark science fiction film 2001: A Space Odyssey will be a very popular pick. I can appreciate much of the visual innovation, but in all honesty the movie has never done much for me and there are many other Kubricks that I prefer.

I would like to see Ingmar Bergman's Shame but have not yet had the opportunity, so shame on me!

1959: Rio Bravo (Howard Hawks)

Released: March 18, 1959 (U.S. premiere)

Director: Howard Hawks; Screenplay: Jules Furthman and Leigh Brackett based on a short story by B.H. McCampbell; Cinematography: Russell Harlan; Studio: Warner Brothers; Producer: Howard Hawks; Music: Dimitri Tiomkin

Cast: John Wayne (Sheriff John T. Chance), Dean Martin (Dude), Ricky Nelson (Colorado Ryan), Walter Brennan (Stumpy), Angie Dickinson (Feathers), Ward Bond (Pat Wheeler), John Russell (Nathan Burdette), Claude Akins (Joe Burdette), Pedro Gonzalez Gonzalez (Carlos Robante), Estelita Rodriguez (Consuelo Robante)

“I didn’t like High Noon. I said it’s phony. A fella’s supposed to be good, supposed to be good with a gun. He runs around like a wet chicken trying to get people to help him and eventually his Quaker wife saves his guts. I said that’s ridiculous. The man wasn’t a professional.”
- Howard Hawks

And here is the genesis of what I consider to be one of the two finest westerns ever made (you’ll have to stay tuned to find out the other!). In a typical moment of candor, director Howard Hawks outlines why he felt compelled to make Rio Bravo and what he intended to get across in detailing the story of a core group of men standing alone in upholding the law. Returning from four years of self-imposed exile in Europe, Hawks came back to Hollywood intending to show how he felt professionals were supposed to act under pressure. It is the supreme example of what has since come to be seen as the “Hawksian man,” as John T. Chance does his job without complaint and expects nothing no unsolicited from those around him.

After seeing quotes like the one above, I don’t think there is a single director that I would like to just sit and hear talk about movies more than Howard Hawks. The man is brutally honest (search for his opinion on The Wild Bunch if you need further proof) and is not above pointing out what he perceives as serious failings in films, whether his own or others. The thing that I love so much about Hawks and situations like these is that whereas such criticisms would come across as whining when made by others, with Hawks it never does. The reason is, just like Chance in Rio Bravo, Hawks doesn’t simply complain about a situation and leave it at that – he sets out to show why _he_ is correct in what he is doing. Hawks didn’t just criticize High Noon. He clearly stated what he felt was wrong with the lauded Zinneman picture, and then made a movie in response that showed his vision and film to be superior.


The cast of personalities assembled for the production mirrors the motley crew that comes together to protect the prisoner they are holding in the film. In John Wayne, Hawks had the most iconic figure in western movies, if not in all of Hollywood. Regardless of whatever feelings one might hold toward Wayne’s acting ability – I’m on record many times on this blog feeling he’s unfairly dismissed as being one-dimensional – his inclusion in a western gives it some form of instant credibility. The surprise comes in looking at those that are gathered around him in the film – with the exception of Walter Brennan, it is a collection of actors and personalities that one would expect to have clashed with that of Wayne. Dean Martin was a crooner who would seem more comfortable in a Las Vegas lounge than portraying a gunslinger on the frontier. Ricky Nelson was a wildly popular rock n’ roll star, with a clean-cut image and with his greatest appeal being to the teenybopper crowd. Angie Dickinson was tapped to play the love interest in the film, attempting to make a romance with Wayne believable despite an obvious age difference that spanned nearly 30 years. The one obvious selection was Walter Brennan, who plays a variation on his usual character but is actually more endearing in this role than in any other I’ve seen him in.

Amazingly, with this unusual assembly of actors, everything gels. The plot is surprisingly simple for westerns of the era, and moves at a pace that could be considered meandering. The story centers on Sheriff Chance (John Wayne) arresting Joe Burdette (Claude Akins) for murder. While this would normally be a routine duty for Chance and his deputy Dude (Dean Martin), this situation is different because of whom Burdette is. His brother, Nathan (John Russell), is a wealthy rancher who holds much power in Rio Bravo. The town begins to brace itself for trouble, fully expecting Nathan to ride into town with his men and break his brother out of jail. Chance vows to stand his ground, despite the fact the only help he has will come from Dude and Stumpy (Walter Brennan), a cripple who is good for little more than guard duty.

Not only does Chance declare that he and his men will hold Burdette until he can be taken to trial, he rebuffs any attempts at assistance. He views this as the job that he, Dude and Stumpy signed on for, and it is their own responsibility to see that Joe stays in jail. When Pat Wheeler (Ward Bond), a merchant from Fort Worth, rolls into town with his men and offers assistance, Chance turns him away. He doesn’t want anyone involved who doesn’t choose to involve themselves, meaning Wheeler's hired hands are not expected to fight. Eventually, Pat is killed for offering assistance to Chance, and a young gunslinger who worked for him decides to join forces with the Sheriff. Colorado (Ricky Nelson) is seen as the fastest gun around and Chance swears him in. Further complicating the tense few days is the arrival of a beautiful woman known only as Feathers (Angie Dickinson), who slowly begins to win the heart of Chance.


Wayne, as Sheriff John T. Chance, is his usual solid self. I suppose that a cynical observer could make the claim that he is simply playing his usual character (oh such poor misguided souls!), but there is something unique about Chance. He is as steadfast as other memorable Wayne characters, but shows some tenderness in the way that he allows himself to be melted by Feathers. Brennan reaffirms the fact that no one could play the curmudgeonly old sidekick like he could and I would rank Stumpy as possibly my favorite Brennan performance. His constant needling of Chance, his complete candidness toward Dude, his shoot first ask questions later outlook in guarding the jail – he becomes a character that it’s impossible not to like. Ricky Nelson is usually maligned as the glaring weakness in the cast and the entire film. I’ll admit that his acting chops pale in comparison to those that he is working with, but I think that Hawks handles him perfectly. Colorado is rarely given center stage and is never left alone to be the driving force of action. When we see Colorado, it is usually as an observer or in a clearly secondary position – being lectured by Chance, listening to Feathers vent, singing with the other guys in the jail. Nothing about Nelson’s performance bothers me, as it is clearly secondary and downplayed.


The best performance to me is the one that most shocked me when I saw the movie for the first time. Not having been around at the time of the film’s release, I have always wondered what the reaction was to hearing of Dean Martin being cast as a cowboy opposite John Wayne. Watching it decades later, I was still thinking what a disaster this could potentially turn out to be. I couldn’t have been any more wrong. Playing the Dude, an alcoholic fighting desperately to stay away from liquor, Martin manages to make the struggle feel authentic. You feel for him as she actually considers digging into a spittoon for the money to buy a drink. You can understand the pressure he must be feeling to be battling the bottle and the Burdette gang simultaneously. Ultimately, I think it is Martin’s irrepressible charisma that makes his performance go over so well. On and off screen the man had a magnetism that made it hard not to be drawn to him. This is felt in the Dude and makes you want to see him overcome his demons.

Hawks had successfully made a western before and I included Red River in this very same countdown. The thing that I think sets Rio Bravo apart and elevates it to a level that even the great Red River doesn’t attain, is the fact that it’s a story that just happens to be set in the west. You could (and other directors would in the future) transplant this same story into wildly different settings and it would still work. There are undoubtedly some great shootouts and sequences of gunplay, but that is not the focus of the film. The true emphasis of the story is on the camaraderie that develops between Chance, Dude, Stumpy and even Colorado to a certain degree. It’s the idea that these three (or four, if including Colorado) have sworn to stick together and see a job done, regardless of who lines up against them or the odds being faced. Hawks was a genius in portraying all-male companionship and the strong bonds that develop between friends.


There any number of directorial decisions that demonstrate why I place Howard Hawks in rarefied air. The scene in which Chance and Dude chase a gunman into the Burdette saloon but cannot find him is near perfection. The way that the scene moves toward its conclusion is incredible. The position of the gunman is revealed by drops of blood falling from the ceiling into a glass on the bar. Hawks then quickly cuts to a vantage point from the rafters, giving the same view as that of the fleeing gunman, just in time to see Dude get the drop on him (as if he’s pulling his gun on you!) and shooting him dead. There are even smaller, seemingly minor decisions that Hawks makes that are so valuable in the feel of the film. The nighttime scenes, with the jail surrounded by darkness and the incessant playing of the “Mexican Death Song” are outstanding. Just the simple, repetitive inclusion of the song playing above everything is so effective.

I’m sure that most everyone has heard Quentin Tarantino talk about his “Rio Bravo test” that he would give to potential girlfriends. He would show the film to a girl and if she reacted positively, he’d determine it was a relationship worth pursuing. I’ve never taken things that far, but I do think that Rio Bravo is a pretty good litmus test of how much I agree with someone in terms of movie tastes. I am always shocked when I meet someone that doesn’t like this movie.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1959: A lot of excellent movies in 1959. Foremost among them for me is another western and B-movie classic Ride Lonesome. This is my favorite of the Budd Boetticher-Randolph Scott films and I think that it deserves mention alongside other great westerns. Arguably the greatest comedy ever made was released in this year with Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot. There are other comedies that I prefer, but this certainly ranks among the very best. Jack Lemmon was an amazing actor, as was Tony Curtis, and it’s impossible to take your eyes off of the gorgeous Marilyn Monroe.

I’ve never been a particularly ardent fan of François Truffaut, but The 400 Blows would be my top choice of his entire filmography. I have always been a huge fan of Hitchcock, but I actually rate North By Northwest somewhat lower than a lot of others. Still, it’s a fun film and one that deserves consideration in a poll like this (even if I consider it not in the same company as his other masterpieces). Other films from 1959 that I adore: Suddenly, Last Summer (Joseph L. Mankiewicz) and Ben-Hur (William Wyler). Many consider Godard's Breathless to be 1959, but I'm going with 1960 to stay consistent in my policy.

Two films that are typically considered among the finest of the year, but that were misses for me are Otto Preminger’s Anatomy of a Murder and Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket. The former was too far-fetched for me to ever get into, while the latter left me cold and unengaged.

1956: The Searchers (John Ford)

Released: March 12, 1956

Director: John Ford; Screenplay: Frank S. Nugent based on the novel of the same name by Alan Le May; Cinematography: Winton C. Hoch; Studio: Warner Brothers; Producer: C.V. Whitney

Cast: John Wayne (Ethan Edwards), Jeffrey Hunter (Martin Pawley), Vera Miles (Laurie Jorgensen), Ward Bond (Rev. and Capt. Samuel Johnston Clayton), Natalie Wood (Debbie Edwards [older]), Lana Wood (Debbie Edwards [younger]), John Qualen (Lars Jorgensen), Olive Carey (Mrs. Jorgensen), Henry Brandon (Scar), Hank Worden (Mose Harper), Walter Coy (Aaron Edwards), Dorothy Jordan (Martha Edwards)

In yet another interesting situation created by the nature of this countdown, 1956 involved some amusing flip-flopping and second guessing on my part before eventually returning to my original selection. When I first started the countdown, I made a preliminary overview-type list, where I outlined each year and made a rough draft of films for each year. Then, the plan was to go back and compare these early choices against other possibilities and “new” films that I was seeing for the first time in certain years. For a few years, however, there were films that I was positive would not be unseated and thus I was able to concentrate on other years where there were films I needed to see or where there were many comparisons to be made. 1956 was a year that I thought was rock solid. I have long regarded The Searchers as John Ford’s greatest film and among the best westerns ever made. Having to keep Bresson’s A Man Escaped out of the countdown was something that I had made my peace with. So, I felt fairly certain that once I approached 1956, I could just go ahead with the choice and move on to the next year.

This is precisely what I started to do. After all, what movie that I had not already seen would be able to supplant The Searchers? I began the early section of a review and proceeded as usual. But in stopping to watch a movie around this time, I decided that I would go ahead and watch another 1956 film. It would at least allow me to say that I was thorough in my deliberations. And so it was that I popped in the DVD of Kon Ichikawa’s The Burmese Harp and proceeded to sit through it and be entirely transfixed. It was a beautiful film, both in its imagery and its story, and I quickly began thinking about how I would begin its entry as the top film of 1956. I even went so far as beginning to jot down thoughts on the movie, before pausing to give The Searchers a chance to reclaim its throne.

Amazingly enough it did, which I suppose is no great surprise to anyone reading this, as they knew from the headline of this post and the movie poster that my selection would be The Searchers. But it truly was an interesting and circuitous route I took to finally arrive at the choice. When I watched it again, for the first time a good while, there are two elements that jumped out at me and made it impossible for me to pick against it – the awe-inspiring visuals in Monument Valley and the career-best performance from The Duke.


It is John Wayne, of course, who stars as Ethan Edwards, a former Confederate cavalry commander who returns to his Texas home rather than surrender to the victorious Union Army. In Texas he is reunited with his brother Aaron’s family, consisting of his wife Martha and there three children. In addition to his blood relatives, Ethan also learns that a baby he rescued years ago was raised as a part of Aaron’s family, and Martin Pawley (Jeffrey Hunter) is introduced to Ethan as his nephew. Ethan immediately dispels any such notion of kinship when he realizes that Martin is one-eight Native American, immediately showing himself to be a racist of the first-degree.

Soon after being reunited with his family, Ethan is asked to go out with a group of Texas Rangers in order to track a band of marauding Comanches. After traveling some distance, the group quickly recognizes that the attacking of cattle had been a ruse to draw the group away. When they return back to the settlement, Ethan is correct in having declared that it was a murder party, as the entire Edwards property is left in ruins. In surveying the damage, Ethan realizes that his brother, sister-in-law and their son have all been murdered. The two daughters, on the other hand, have been kidnapped. Ethan vows to track them and bring them back, and grudgingly allows Martin to go along with him. Thus, begins a quest that will take the two of them years to complete and have them venturing up mountains, through snow, and across open plains. As the two eventually begin to close in on Chief Scar (Henry Brandon), the man holding Debbie (Natalie Wood) captive, events take on an even more sinister tone. Simply returning Debbie to family and friends no longer appears to be Ethan’s chief objective. This is the plan if Debbie is still “civilized,” which in his eyes means “white.” If she has instead been changed by the Comanches – and read whatever you want into “changed,” be it assimilated, transformed, or even having slept with them – then Ethan has no interest in saving her. In his eyes, she would then be nothing but just another Comanch, and he is committed to seeing that group of people wiped from the face of Texas. Martin’s role then becomes ensuring that he is present when they find Debbie, as he is certain that Ethan would kill her without batting an eye.


The primary characteristic, and the one that so many viewers seem to get hung up on, is the overt racism displayed by Ethan Edwards. It is no coincidence that he is a returning Confederate soldier. Yes, I’m fully aware that not all Confederate soldiers were raving racists and I’m not making any such claim. But the image serves to strengthen the idea that in Ethan you’re dealing with a man who truly believes in the idea of various races being different and unequal. There is no getting around the fact that he is an outright racist – there is simply no other way to account for his constant belittling of Indians, his references to Marty as “blanket-head,” or his refusal to claim Marty as a relative because he is just 1/8th Cherokee. This is a fact that I’ve actually known to turn many people off from the character and the movie, as they equate having a hero with this worldview as Ford somehow endorsing it. I just feel like such a reading of the character is flawed it two key ways.

First, I think this is simply approaching the character in the wrong way, and expecting it to be played as John Wayne rather than as Ethan Edwards. To expect Ethan to be the typical John Wayne role, the tough guy who is nevertheless the embodiment of American ideals, is just not what the character is meant to be. And in reality, it’s not what is needed to make the story as compelling as it is. Second, and even more important, is that simply labeling Ethan as a racist and nothing more overlooks very intriguing nuances in the character. I’ve admitted the bigoted attitude Ethan possesses, but at the same time he appears to be somebody who harbors at least grudging respect for the Comanches he is tracking. He seems to know more about them than any other settlers in the state – he speaks the language, is familiar with their customs, and never makes the mistake of underestimating them as many of his companions do. In other words, he is not blinded by his prejudice. And, it has to be pointed out, he does not go through the movie completely unchanged. Does he suddenly emerge as a proponent of equal rights? Of course not. But his outlook obviously begin to adjust. While he remains gruff with him throughout the entire film, it is obvious that Ethan grows to be fond of Marty, no matter how many off-color remarks he makes toward him. Just witness his willing of his entire property to Marty if he were to die. It is far from a 180-degree transformation, but Ethan Edwards seen through the doorway at the beginning of the film is different from the Ethan who is framed in the same way at the close.


Rather than blather on and try to recreate on paper what John Ford produced so magnificently on screen, I’ll instead include a number of my favorite scenic shots that can be found throughout. The film was shot in Ford’s favorite locale, Monument Valley, and the use of Technicolor and the VistaVision process look like they were created for just such a film. Ford is rightly lauded as being among the best in use of outdoor scenery and the sweeping shots that allow viewers to take in the entire scope of the surroundings. He shot many other beautiful films over the course of his career – The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, My Darling Clementine – but The Searchers ranks among the most gorgeous films I have ever seen. Here are some of my favorite shots:





The Searchers is widely regarded as the greatest western ever made. While there are one or two other westerns that I personally prefer, it’s a claim that is incredibly hard to dispute. What I will definitively say is that I don’t think John Ford ever made a finer film or that John Wayne ever turned in a better performance. That one-two combination should be enough to validate its place among the best films of all time.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1956: An incredibly top-heavy year in my opinion. As I said, Kon Ichikawa’s The Burmese Harp was a revelation and very nearly stole this slot. Robert Bresson is a director that I sometimes struggle with, but A Man Escaped is undeniably great. I don’t think it is at all hyperbole to declare it to be the best prison break movie ever made. The other film that was in the running this year was the great Stanley Kubrick noir The Killing. Based on his roster of acclaimed films, I know that I will likely be in the extreme minority when I say that The Killing is my favorite film that Kubrick ever made. The film looks great to this day and is intriguing, if not mysterious, the entire way through.

Another western that deserves mention, but never really contended for the top spot, is Budd Boetticher’s Seven Men From Now. While there is another Boetticher-Randolph Scott western that I prefer, this is definitely among the best B-westerns ever made. The final film I’d highlight is one that a lot of people consider 1955, but in staying consistent with my guidelines I’m including in 1956, is Jean-Pierre Melville’s Bob le flambeur. While I don’t consider it to be in the top tier of Melville’s impressive filmography (those films were still to come), it’s a great film nonetheless.