Starring: Klinton Spilsbury, Michael Horse, Christopher Lloyd, Jason Robards
Directed By: William A. Fraker

I think that whoever proposed re-launching the Lone Ranger franchise with 1981’s The Legend of the Lone Rangerhad a good idea. Of course, the path to bankruptcy is paved with good ideas.  New Coke was a good idea . . . if people liked the product.   Parents and grandparents grew up with the iconic Old West hero the Lone Ranger on TV or on radio.  Presumably those parental units would be excited to take their little consumers to the theater to enjoy a family friendly, PG adventure featuring the Lone Ranger.  On the drawing board it was so great: We’ll have old fashioned stunt work, horses, clearly defined heroes and villains, a moral and upright protagonist with a clear sense of right and wrong, and it’ll be awesome!  Oh, it all looked so promising.

Here is where the idea goes flying horribly off the track: Every single element after the green light ranging from casting to script to filming to catering.  The Legend of the Lone Ranger does not meander toward the wretched film abyss, it gallops blindfolded straight into the hall of awful at a brisk gallop shouting “Hi yo, Silver!” all the way to the bottom of that gorge of film infamy.

The trademark catchphrase spoken of the Lone Ranger is, “Who was that masked man?”  The Legend of the Lone Ranger, while presenting an origin story for the Solitary Vigilante, makes answering that query rather tricky.   For you see, the Lone Ranger is played by a handsome fellow who had the great misfortune to be named “Klinton Spilsbury,” who is perfect for the part if all you’re considering are photographs and nothing relating to motion or speech.  Klinton never acted in anything – not even an episode of Charlie’s Angels– before or after this movie, and, to be honest, he really doesn’t act in this movie either.  So convinced were the filmmakers by the star power of their choice for the face of the franchise that Klinton Spilsbury’s dialogue is dubbed by another actor (James Keech).  Who is that Masked Ventriloquist Dummy?  Some guy named Klinton. 

The film’s story itself is innocuous; It’s the 19th century in olde time Texas where, John Reid (Klinton or Keech, take your pick), future lonely ranger, is an all around decent fellow, remarkable only in his decency.  As a boy he saves future sidekick Tonto from bandits who then kill his folks.  John grows up to become a lawyer who comes back to the frontier and joins his brother, a Texas Ranger, on a posse hunting some outlaws.  All the Rangers including big brother are wiped out thanks to a traitor in their midst except John, the lone surviving ranger. 

John is nursed back to health by Tonto, then opts to don a mask and seek out his revenge against the traitor and the villain Cabendish (Christopher Lloyd).  Why exactly a mask is necessary is unclear; John’s only family in the area happens to be dead and he just got to the area, he unsuccessfully courted a lady who left at the first sign of danger, and has no friends. Perhaps the mask isn’t for anonymity but just for fun?

Although the story is generic and predictable, the four screenwriters decided that a narrator was necessary to add pithy, rhyming commentary.  And it’s not just a mere narrator, it’s a “balladeer,” performed by no less than THE Merle Haggard, who I’m not familiar with but assume is famous and popular.  Incessantly throughout the movie we get inane rhymes like, “And Tonto recognized John Reid by the amulet that he wore. But John had once saved Tonto’s life, so this evened up the score.”  Thanks for that, Balladeer, you really cleared things up for me! 

The narration drones on so frequent and so random I almost expected to hear Merle Haggard chime in when the heroes are riding to the rescue with something like, “They we’re riding hard, willing to do whatever it’d take.  The Masked Man was getting sleepy while Tonto’s butt ached.”

Perhaps I’ll take advantage of the services of the balladeer in describing the master plan of the heinous villain.   Take it away, Merle: “So, Cabendish had pulled it off.  Vanished without firing a shot. The masked man and Tonto had to move fast and ride while his trail was still hot.  They didn’t know what he intended to do.  But the life at stake was President Grant’s.  Perhaps Butch would hold him. Perhaps Butch would kill him. They just couldn’t take that chance.”

I dare you to read that sentence aloud to a fellow human being and not laughing.  Try it — it cannot be done.

Yes, President Ulysses S. Grant (Jason Robards) is the Executive in Distress, requiring rescuing from the Lone Ranger.

There is a love interest for the Lone Ranger, though she ships out at the halfway mark of the film for her safety and never returns to play the damsel in distress.  Even more peculiar is that the Lone Ranger has more trouble courting his horse Silver than he does the lady, and he seems more interested in the horse, too.  I present you this observation without further comment and leave you to draw your own conclusion.

If I had to say something nice about The Legend of the Lone Ranger, it would be that you get to hear the William Tell Overture approximately 1034 times.  (Not a lot of people know that The William Tell Overture was used as the theme song for the Lone Ranger prior to going on to greater fame as the little ditty played to motivate baseball groundskeepers as they scramble to repair the field during the seventh inning stretch.)

I recently started to watch recent DVD releases District 9 and Where the Wild Things Are, and at the halfway point gave up due to disinterest.  I’m not saying either is bad, just I could not be bothered to sit through them as my mind wandered to distant lands where unicorns roam free and magic bears ride them to the Honeycomb Hideout.

Since the Asylum is kind enough to send Film is Pwn HQ advance copies of their DVDs (thanks, Asylum!), I feel somewhat obliged to screen them and write them up.  I feel it is important to provide this up front disclaimer to my review: Watching the Asylum’s latest release 6 Guns felt like homework before I started watching it.  As the film unfolded, it began to feel a tad bit more like I was the subject of a blind, amateur dentist’s first root canal.

I confess that I actually saw 6 Guns last weekend.  I meant to write a review, but it slipped my mind.  I saw the DVD lying before my TV, and stared blankly at the cover for a while.  You know that feeling when you run into someone who looks familiar and you aren’t sure if you went to high school with them?  I had it just yesterday running into a former co-worker who had lost probably 100 pounds since I’d last seen them.  I had that with this movie.  “Hi, Movie, this may sound strange, but . . . I have to ask: Have I watched you yet?”

6 Guns, is a low-budget homage to ye olde school Clint Eastwood Westerns.  Frankly, 6 Guns may be the most utterly unremarkable and forgettable film I’ve ever seen.

If not for the thoroughly uncomfortable scene where a young mother, Selena, is forced to watch her husband and children murdered before being gang raped by outlaws, this would have slipped my mind completely. 

The story is about Selena, who turns to drink and then vengeance on the outlaws who slaughtered her family and left her for dead.  One logistical problem is that the actress who plays the mother, Sage Mears, looks to be in her early 20s, despite her character having a 10 and 12 year old son and a grizzled old, ex-lawman husband. 

Selena’s chance for revenge comes when the Eastwood-clone Bounty Hunter Frank Allison shows up in town.  Frank’s arrival in town is terrific, as approximately 137 different townsfolk tell him in succession how safe he makes them feel when he’s around.  Still, people keep dying.  Good work, Frank!

Frank takes pity on the widow, teaches her to shoot, and eventually they end up in a big shootout with the bad guys.  The end.

Other than the dreadfully uncomfortable rape scene, the one item worth mentioning is how darn much Van Dyke is in this movie.  It was directed by Dick Van Dyke’s grandson, Shane Van Dyke, who also plays one of the villains. Shane’s brother Carey Van Dyke is one of the other villains.

The heroic bounty hunter is played by Shane’s Dad, Barry Van Dyke, who plays the grizzled anti-hero with all the panache of a singing Chimney Sweep.  Barry VD has the most acting chops and experience of the case, seemingly thanks largely to nepotism.  On imdb.com, Barry Van Dyke’s credits are 90% appearance in Van Dyke Patriarch Dick Van Dyke’s long-running murder mystery series, Diagnosis Murder (alias: “Matlock, M.D.“). 

Bottom line, I did not like 6 Guns at all.  My lack of movie enthusiasm may have contributed plus there’s my disgust at the gratuitous rape scene.  6 Guns isn’t nearly good enough to be taken seriously and it is sadly not bad enough to be awesome (a la the Gold Standard of Asylum Movies, Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus).

Skip it, I say! 

. . . Here’s hoping Clash of the Titans this weekend will rejuvenate my movie mojo.

Recently, I sat down and watched Pale Rider for a second time.  After the second go-round, as a more mature and observant movie connoisseur, I feel comfortable elevating Pale Rider from “pretty good” to “pretty great.”

One one level, Pale Rider is a classic Old West story.  It’s about a mysterious Preacher (Eastwood) who bears more resemblance to a gunslinger than a traditional pastor.  The Preacher arrives in a town where a tycoon named La Hood (Richard Dysart) is attempting to run some poor prospectors off their land in order to mine it for himself.  La Hood’s thugs attempt to bully the hapless prospectors and the Preacher intervenes on the underdog’s behalf.  La Hood calls on hired guns to take out the Preacher, and it all ends in a blaze of glory.

That’s the surface: Eastwood reprising his classic role as the rugged Old West anti-hero archetype “The Man With No Name” that garnered him fame in Spaghetti Westerns like The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly in the 60s.  However, there’s a lot more to Pale Rider.

For starters, Eastwood’s character “the Preacher” is not some solitary gunslinger turned preacher, but rather a ghost.  Yes, I said a ghost.

The Preacher’s ethereal status isn’t explicit or explained and there is no Bruce Willis in Sixth Sense reveal.  You could watch Pale Rider and simply interpret the signs as the Preacher is one wily, mysterious dude (as I did in my youth).  Indicators that the Preacher is some variety of specter include:  The five bullet hole scars patterned on his back in the shape of a “D” that would be impossible to survive even with modern medical technology; the Preacher’s uncanny ability to appear and disappear when people aren’t looking; there’s a transient nature to the Preacher – he tells his new companions that he will be moving on soon; the Preacher is seemingly invulnerable to pain and unafraid of death; when the tycoon describes the Preacher to the lead hired gunslinger, Stockburn, noting that the Preacher recognized Stockburn’s name, Stockburn responds:  “That man is dead.”

Seen through that lens, a few other things become evident.  Not the least of which is that it’s freaking cool to consider that Eastwood is portraying not just an Old West hero but an avenging phantom of Biblical proportions.  When the Preacher arrives in the prospector’s camp, a girl just so happens to be reading aloud Revelations  Chapter 6: “Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.” And that’s how we got our title, people!

Also, Clint Eastwood’s character the Preacher is not the hero; the hero is one of the prospectors, Hull (Michael Moriarty), who is a decent, brave, and altogether unspectacular man.  Hull is the de facto leader of the band of prospectors who stands up to the bad guys simply because he thinks it is right to do so.  Hull even has the romantic interest, a modest courtship with a woman whose husband abandoned her to raise their strong-willed daughter all alone in the harsh frontier.  Hull, unlike the Preacher, is an Everyman character.  Hull’s courage in standing up to La Hood is the movie; the ghost avenging his own death is the side-show.

All in all, Pale Rider is one darn tootin’ entertaining Western.  It’s not as good as Unforgiven, but in my view not many movies are.

Let me just say this trailer is terrible:

Lee Marvin, I haven’t forgotten about you.

Okay, I’ll stop talking like that now.

Every year or two, there’s a new Western from A-list stars that is critically acclaimed and is credited with attempting to revive the dying Western genre.  Of course the Western is not dying, it’s just been relegated to a novelty that occasionally gets dusted off when a star like Ed Harris decides he wants to make a Western.  Appaloosa is the latest film to re-re-re-re-revive the Western, just recently released on DVD/Blu Ray.  Though technically it’s not an A-list project, featuring Ed Harris, Viggo Mortensen, and Jeremy Irons, but it’s still a B+-list project (Renee Zellweger, I grant you, is an A-lister).

Though Appaloosa deserves some mockery for its leisurely pace – there are stretches where it seemed auteur Ed Harris, who stars, directs, and co-scripts might as well sit in front of a chair and stare at his watch for five minutes just to prove to the audience that he can – I liked the film.  As soon as I got a little impatient and walked into the kitchen to get something to drink, BAM! I’d hear something happen and have to run back to figure out what the heck I’d missed or if it was just the neighbors dog knocking over something outside. 9 out of 10 times it was the dog, but that’s not the point.

Appaloosa seems to regard authenticity as more critical than entertainment, but I have to question whether people were really that melancholy, sluggish, and dispassionate back then?  At one point, Ed Harris says to his partner Viggo Mortensen they should go investigate some suspicious riders outside of town, and Mortensen asks if he can finish his coffee first; the response from Harris is “you surely may.”  If you are looking for further evidence that the frequently dawdling pacing is intentional, look no further than the closing line of the film: “I rode West at an easy pace.  It was going to be a long ride, and there was no reason to hurry.”  If I might interject, there is a reason to hurry: You’re makin’ a movie, pilgrim! Snap to! Wake up! All hands on deck!

The Western set in the infamous, pivotal Chester A. Arthur era revolves around Virgil (Ed Harris) and Everett (Viggo Mortensen), two lawmen for hire who are employed by the good people of typical 1880s, Western burg Appaloosa to reclaim control over the town after the corrupt cattle baron Bragg (Jeremy Irons) has killed the Sheriff.  Virgil and Everett take over the town and institute their own rules and enforce them with violence.  Everett is easy going and reasonable, but he is the loyal sidekick to quick tempered Virgil, whose excesses are prone to make the town elders wonder whether the cure is worse than the disease.  To be fair, Virgil generally has more provocation to shoot someone dead than Bragg.

Everett and Virgil get Bragg tried and convicted for murder on the basis of one witness (oh, those were the days!), but escorting the wealthy, influential Bragg to be hanged is another matter entirely.  This is evocative of the plotline of the last great Western, the remake of 3:10 to Yuma where Christian Bale’s character is hired to escort notorious outlaw Russell Crowe while being pursued by the later’s gang, though Appaloosa plays it differently enough so that it’s not a distraction.

To complicate things, a widow named Allison (Renee Zellweger) arrives in town and sets her sights on Virgil, the town’s alpha male, though it becomes apparent that when Virgil isn’t around her attention will turn to whoever happens to be the man, even if it’s Everett.  After Allison’s propensity for indiscretion comes out, Everett and Virgil discuss it in their patented, laid back manner.   Everett gives his diagnosis that Allison is always drawn to the lead stallion, to which Virgil points out there is only one lead stallion. Everett’s response is a classic: “At a time.”

From the same scene comes one of the greatest, strangest lines of dialogue.  Virgil is explaining to Everett why he loves Allison though her propensity for cheatin’ has become known.  He articulates the woman’s qualities in a way you will not find on any modern Hallmark card.  The following is an exact quote, the elipsis is not leaving out words, it’s just documenting the pauses:

“She speaks well, she dresses fine, she’s good lookin’ . . . she can play the piano and she cooks good, and she’s very clean.  . . Chews her food nice.”

I wonder if I were to tell a woman on a date that she “chewed her food nice” if she’d take it as a compliment.

Only one way to find out!

–Daniel J. Roos is now creating a eHarmony.com account listing one of the things that he looks for in a woman being the ability to “pleasantly chew food.”  He expects to have many “matches” in the near future.

There is a different class of movie, the kind that can appear at first to be merely adequate or perhaps even pedestrian, but fondness grows with time as aspects of the movie stick in your mind until you succumb to a second viewing and see it in a whole new perspective.  To me, the perfect example of this is Clint Eastwood’s 1992 masterpiece, Unforgiven.

When I first saw Unforgiven on VHS, I was around 14 years old, and I remember kinda liking it, sort of.  It didn’t make a very strong impression at first, quite honestly.  I’d seen and enjoyed a lot of Clint Eastwood’s earlier Westerns that generally contained a lot more shoot ‘em up action, so perhaps I was a little disappointed by the relatively methodical pace of the film.  A decade and a half later, Unforgiven appeared as my second favorite movie of all-time.  What changed?  The film didn’t, that’s for sure.

In Unforgiven, Eastwood directs and stars as William Munny, a character who could pass as the future incarnation of any number of characters from Eastwood’s iconic Western canon.  Munny was a bad, bad gunfighter in his day, but as he often says, his late wife cured him of drinking and settled him down.  Now Munny is a widower raising his two young children on a hog farm, his sadistic past deeds a memory he’d rather forget.

A young gunman calling himself the Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvett) arrives and wants Munny’s help in collecting a bounty.  Two men cut up a prostitute in the small frontier town of Old Whiskey, and the story of exactly what these men did, despicable as it is, gets even more reprehensible every time it’s told.  Munny at first declines, because he’s a different man.  He hasn’t so much as fired a gun in ages.  But we see that Munny is not a very good hog farmer, and he could use the money.  Besides, these two guys have it coming, Munny figures.

Along with his old partner and only friend Ned (Morgan Freeman), Munny rides up to join the Kid in his bounty hunting.  Meanwhile, in Old Whiskey, Sheriff “Little Bill” Daggett (Gene Hackman) is running a tight ship.  Little Bill confiscates all guns from anyone entering the town, including the legendary gunslinger English Bob (Richard Harris) who comes seeking to collect the bounty.

Bob travels with a writer named W.W. Beauchamp (Saul Rubinek) who is chronicling his exploits for stories of Old West gunfighters to sell to the papers back East, and English Bob’s tall tales are tall indeed, if Little Bill is to be believed.  One of many extraordinary scenes in Unforgiven is when Little Bill challenges Beauchamp to shoot him, going so far as to provide, aim, and cock the gun.  The prize is his freedom and Bob’s, but Little Bill’s the point is it’s not as easy to kill a man as you might think.  Beauchamp switches allegiances from English Bob to Little Bill at that moment, and when Bob is run out of town the writer stays behind, having found a more alluring source of wild west tales.

One of the fascinating things about the movie is how the characters react to killing and violence in general, Beauchamp’s odyssey being but one example.  Little Bill commits brutal acts in the name preserving the peace.  Ned and Munny are changed men, and find that taking a life isn’t as easy to do as they remembered it.  The Kid brags that he’s killed many men before, but he’s all bluster and when he actually does kill a man, it’s not what he thought it would be.  (Jaimz Woolvett’s performance is top-notch, which makes it seem strange that after Unforgiven he was relegated to menial film and TV roles, none more high profile than guest appearances on JAG and Joan of Arc.)

The epic culmination of Unforgiven occurs after Little Bill incurs Munny’s unmitigated wrath, and for the sake of not revealing critical spoilers I won’t say what exactly the Sheriff does.  The important thing is that William Munny comes for revenge like he was the Angel of Death himself.

This is the feared, dreaded William Munny that everyone tells stories about but the audience has not been seen by the audience.  As “cool” as it is to witness Clint Eastwood as Munny finally becoming the dark avenger in one of the most exquisite scenes ever filmed, this is a sad, sad scene precisely because Munny returns to his past ways.

Killing some time one evening, I was searching for the original reviews of some of my favorite films on the Ebert & Siskel/Roeper website, and to me astonishment Unforgiven got a thumbs down from Siskel and agreement from Ebert on most of Siskel’s complaints, though Ebert does give the film a thumbs up.  Among other things Ebert says in the review from 1992:  “Unforgiven is a great looking Western . . . It’s story does not, however, build up much momentum or have a strong sweep that carries us from beginning to end.  It’s kind of a meandering picture.”

Contrast those words with Ebert who, more than a decade later, would include Unforgiven as one of his series of essays on “The Great Movies,” that include no less than Citizen Kane, The Godfather, the Bridge Over the River Kwai, and other absolute classics.  The review (which can be found in Roger Ebert’s “The Great Books II”) reads: “There is one exchange in the movie that has long stayed with me. After he is fatally wounded, Little Bill says, ‘I don’t deserve this. To die like this. I was building a house.’ And Munny says, ‘Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it.’ . . . That implacable moral balance, in which good eventually silences evil, is at the heart of the Western, and Eastwood is not shy about saying so.”

Sounds to me like Roger Ebert, arguably the greatest living film critic, was just as moved and just as haunted by this astonishing film as I was . . . and it took him a few years to realize it too. 

Unforgiven remains Clint Eastwood’s swan song to the Western, the very genre that made him not only famous, but Clint Eastwood.  And what better way to go out than with what is, in my humble and accurate opinion, the greatest Western ever made?

–Daniel J. Roos

John Wayne kind of represents the idealized picture of the American tough guy, whether he played a cowboy or a soldier or . . . well, he only played cowboys or soldiers, come to think of it.  “The Duke”, as Wayne was called, projected a sense of decency, principles, and of fair play uncommon in Hollywood today.  While filming his last film, The Shootist, Wayne refused to be filmed shooting an outlaw in the back, because it wasn’t honorable.  Wayne continued to be a marketable star until the mid-70s, when he succumbed to cancer.  One of many reasons to admire the Duke is that his movies were always family friendly, especially by today’s standards. 

One of my favorite albums is called John Wayne in tribute to the Duke, by a country-rock artist named Terry Scott Taylor (the album cover reads: “Terry Scott Taylor – John Wayne” in one of the largest collection of first names in music history.  The title track includes a tremendous lament of how times and movies have changed since the Duke passed on:

So please release us
put back the pieces
heal our diseases
extend our leases
The well has run dry
We need a tough guy
We need a dead eye
to save us from the mess that we’re in

The tremendous legacy and work of John Wayne does not provide an excuse for a misfire – at least by modern standards - early in his career, King of the Pecos.  In 1936, when the movie was released, this film could have been brilliant and clever, but now, it’s just plain bad.

The film opens with a text scroll informing us about indefinite land laws and water rights in New Mexico “in the seventies”.  Of course, in 1936 its natural that the 1870s would be known as “the seventies,” but for some reason this makes me wistful to be one of those lucky people in the original audience that had never heard of the Beegees.

In the background, we see a shot with a vast mountain in the background and cowboys herding cattle in the foreground.  The shot fades out, then fades in to reveal the same shot with the same cowboys and cattle in slightly different positions.  I don’t care if the movie was made seventy-two years ago, that’s just stupid.

Evil land grabbers working for evil profiteer Stiles (Cy Kendall) try to grab land from a homesteader who refuses to sell.  The homesteader and his wife are shot in front of their son, who watches Dad slump over, give his final words to the boy, without his face being shown on camera.  Amateur hour continues.

We cut to John Wayne (I won’t bother using his character name – he’s flippin’ John Wayne!) shooting targets, as he prepares to practice frontier law.  A nearly unintelligible bystander comments, “What’s he gonna be?  A lawyer or a gunman?”  The reply from another bystander replies, “Looks like both.”

Attempts at comedy are painful.  Wayne arrives in Stiles’ town and two comic relief locals hire him to sue the evil Stiles’ claims of their land, and we get this exchange:

Wayne: “I’ll take your case, Hank.”
Comic Relief Local # 1: “Take it where?”
Wayne: “To court!”
Comic Relief Local # 2 (running in with a small cup): “Here’s that bar (bear?) grease!”

Wayne rallies the oppressed locals against Stiles and they have their day in court despite intimidation by Stiles’ minions.  Intimidation includes a book being thrown at John Wayne in the street before this ominous taunt: “That’s what I think of you, ya word slingin’ law-pirate!”  If I ever feel compelled to insult a lawyer, I’ll have to remember that snappy “word slingin’ law-pirate” zinger.

The courtroom scenes are remarkably botched by the director, without perspective to inform the viewer where people are in the context of the relatively small room so it’s entirely possible all the characters are appearing in separate dimensions and it was pasted together.  Naturally, the outcome of the staggeringly brief trial leads to gunplay between the decent locals led by Wayne and the thugs of Stiles.  And, it all takes place to the tune of one of the worst soundtracks I’ve ever heard. 

I suppose some might say King of the Pecos was made in the mid-30s and therefore it should be excused from its countless flaws, but this is a bad, bad movie.  The only reason it hasn’t faded into blissful oblivion is the presence of John Wayne – and even amidst the inanity Wayne has that star presence that would make him arguably the greatest of the Hollywood icons, and the only compliment I can give the movie is that it’s interesting to see a young Duke ply his trade.

Still, fer you young fellers not sure why John Wayne is an regarded as an icon, check out the Searchers – it’s the second best Western ever made, in my opinion, right behind Unforgiven.  (My apologies to Tombstone.)

–Daniel J. Roos

John Wayne, the Good:

Sadly, odds are, unless you are a connoisseur of the Western genre or are a Bronson fan, you haven’t heard of this movie.  Breakheart Pass is based on a novel by Alistair MacLean, a Scottish writer best known for his World War II thrillers like the Guns of Navarone and Where Eagles Dare.  Interestingly, MacLean also wrote the screenplay for Breakheart Pass, and his name appears above the title, a token of respect for the writer reserved exclusively for Stephen King in modern times. 

Breakheart Pass opens with Governor Fairchild (Richard Crenna) leading an emergency mission via train to a remote outpost in the Rocky Mountains, Fort Humboldt.  The fort has been besieged by a plague, and they are bringing medical supplies and replacement soldiers.  At the last town before a long journey through the desolate wilderness, they pick up Marshall Pearce (Ben Johnson) and a suspected murderer he is transporting, Deakin (Charles Bronson).

Before long, it becomes evident that there is a saboteur aboard.  The doctor (David Huddleston) is found dead, and others disappear from the train, which can only mean death as no one can survive the snowbound territory.  Aboard the train are the daughter of the besieged fort (Jill Ireland – Charles Bronson’s real life wife), a suspicious reverend (Bill McKinney), the governor’s right hand man (Charles Durning), a cook (Archie Moore), and the Major commanding the replacement soldiers (Ed Lauter).

Breakheart Pass was released in 1975, a year after the most successful and high profile Agatha Christie theatrical adaptation, Murder on the Orient Express.  This is fairly bad timing for Breakheart Pass, because either by intent or coincidence it resembles Orient Express in basic structure.  Both films feature a murder on a train that is unable to stop, an investigation conducted by an outsider, and the murders are results of an intricate conspiracy.  Granted, the conclusion of Murder on the Orient Express didn’t have a dynamite tossin’, horse ridin’, and guns a blazin’ culmination, but this is an Alistair MacLean movie, not an Agatha Christie movie.

One of the oddities of the film is how the gentile passengers treat the prisoner, Deakin, with a shocking amount of trust and allow him a copious quantity of freedom on the train, even after the first murder occurs.  Though much of his investigation is conducted surreptitiously, Deakin has the opportunity to ask the entire cast questions as he strolls with free reign about the train.  Since Deakin has some medical history, he is able to examine the late doctor and determine that the cause of death is murder, and I suppose that grants him a modicum of autonomy, but is it inconceivable that his diagnosis might have been a ruse?  Though the audience knows simply based on the order of names appearing on the marquee that Charles Bronson isn’t a mere murderer on his way to the gallows, the other characters didn’t see the title cards, did they?

There’s a lot to admire in the film. The mountain scenery is breathtakingly exquisite.  There is a memorable, Western score from composer/conductor Jerry Goldsmith that is stellar.  The film builds intrigue slowly in classic murder mystery fashion before getting to the action with restraint that modern, mainstream films do not possess. 

Despite the fondness I possess for Breakheart Pass, I must grant that it will likely always exist on the periphery of classic movies, not entirely forgotten but seldom reverred.  It’s far from the top ten Westerns of all-time.

Alistair MacLean’s legacy lies in the beloved Guns of Navarone, and understandably so; Navarone is a superior film.

Bronson will likely be remembered for his work as a tough guy vigilante (as in Death Wish) rather than his more dexterous performance here.  (Not to mention Bronson’s strong supporting roles in three unforgettable 60s classics, the Dirty Dozen, the Magnificent Seven, and the Great Escape.)

So, sadly, Breakheart Pass will be in the background of the Western genre.  But for those who do seek the film out on DVD or happen to catch it on a classic movie channel, I feel safe in stating that Breakheart Pass will be a pleasant surprise. 

–Lawrence D. Oso

We’re the site where it’s about the love of movies, and the Three Amigos holds a special place in my heart.  I was around 8 years old when I first saw it, and I remember enjoying every ridiculous second of it, and then watching it again and again until certain scenes have become permanently imbedded in my brain, for better or worse.  20 years later my brother and I still recite dialogue to our mutual amusement.  We Roos brothers belong to a not-so exclusive club of children of the 80s who embraced the Three Amigos.  A couple years ago a mere mention of the film at a church-league softball game sparked an impromptu, flawless, and complete performance of “My Little Buttercup” between my brother and one of the church’s pastor, which remains my fondest (and, honestly, only) memory of that season.

The movie for what you don’t know has the premise of three 1930s, out of work actors known collectively as the Three Amigos (Chase, Martin, Short) receiving a telegram from a tiny town in Mexico named Santa Poco seeking the Amigos to “come stop the infamous El Guapo.”  The town is being tormented by your classic Mexican bandito, El Guapo, and believes the Amigos are the real deal and send for their assistance.  In HILarious fashion, the Amigos read the telegram as, “Come. Stop. The infamous El Guapo.”  Unfortunately, none of them know what infamous means, but Martin Short’s character THINKS he does, and tells the others, “In-famous is when you’re MORE than famous. This man El Guapo, he’s not just famous, he’s IN-famous.”

Under the impression that they are going to work with movie store El Guapo, the Amigos go to the town and are treated as heroes.  When the town tells them El Guapo will be there in the morning, the Amigos think that means they will be working with another star.  Of course, they learn the hard way El Guapo is the bad guy, and the Amigos are humiliated, but eventually gather themselves to attempt to save the day for real.  The highlight of the movie being when Steve Martin addresses the crowd to rally them to stand up to El Guapo and his gang: “In a way, each of us has an El Guapo to face. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous man who wants to kill us. But as sure as my name is Lucky Day, the people of Santa Poco can conquer their own personal El Guapo, who also happens to be *the actual* El Guapo! “  Comedy gold.

The very good SAT words “infamous” and “plethora” for the rest of my life will spark memories of the Three Amigos.  My familiarity of “plethora” came about in the classic scene between the villain, El Guapo, and his primary henchman, Jefe, as preparation is underway for El Guapo’s big birthday bash.

Jefe: “I have put many beautiful piñatas in the storeroom, each of them filled with little surprises.”
El Guapo: “Many piñatas?”
Jefe: “Oh yes, many!”
El Guapo: “Would you say I have a plethora of piñatas?”
Jefe: “A what?”
El Guapo: “A *plethora*.”
Jefe: “Oh yes, you have a plethora.”
El Guapo: “Jefe, what is a plethora?”
Jefe: “Why, El Guapo?”
El Guapo: “Well, you told me I have a plethora. And I just would like to know if you know what a plethora is. I would not like to think that a person would tell someone he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has *no idea* what it means to have a plethora.”

Okay, yes, Three Amigos is simple, silly, some might say cheesy, but it’s MY comedy, darn it.  The day I stop finding riding to the singing bush and reciting a goofy chant to summon the Invisible Swordsman funny is the day I stop being a kid.  And even though I’m nearly 30, I’ll be darned if that stops me from being a kid. 

Still, looking at the absolute classic movies and other personal favorites, many of whom would have to take one for the proverbial team and be omitted, I simply could not bring myself to slip Three Amigos on the list.  Considering that no films from Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert De Niro, and Al Pacino made the list (all of whom I greatly enjoy and admire) it would be a shame to include a simple, outlandish Chevy Chase/Steve Martin/Steve Martin comedy.  My list right now holds no 80s movies, let alone silly 80s comedies.  It’s a decision that I can’t help but second-guess even now, but for the time being, I stand by my decision.  For now.  Sorry, Three Amigos. 

–DJR

If you were ever one to believe that a person is defined by their environment then you couldn’t blame these men and you could only adore the innocent attempts of one woman to try to make it beautiful, and be horrified as you see some pieces of that savage landscape start to come out. Guy Pearce plays, Charlie Burns, one of the three brothers in the Burns Gang. Charlie is given the chance to save the life of himself and his younger brother by following through on the proposition of a police captain trying to “civilize this land.”

The proposition stems from a heinous crime committed by the Burns’ Gang. After the crime the two younger of the Burns’ brothers leave their eldest brother Arthur’s company. They try to run from the guilt – but of course it’s not to be. They are both captured and Charlie must kill his own brother to save the life of the other. Captain Stanley (Ray Winstone) is a man doing whatever he can to bring civility to an incredibly brutal world all the while trying to shield his wife from it. Emma Watson plays a troubled, isolated woman and wife to the obsessed Captain Stanley. Her world is lonely because her husband is rarely home, and when he is, he’s really still in the outback fighting his way to peace.

The journey of Charlie through the harsh Australian outback is slow and painful to watch. Every scene of this movie is shot in such a way as you can feel time and heat bearing down on you. The 9 days given to Charlie to find his brother and kill him is short and the weight of each moment presses on both Charlie and Captain Stanley. The music plays up the feel of the entire film. Instruments are often played solo, enhancing the feeling of solitude that haunts Captain Stanley and Charlie Burns.

The Proposition is blatant in its violence and unforgiving in its sorrow. Its certainly not for the faint of heart. But, it’s rewarding if you can make it.
I give it a Buy-It.