Gettin' Medieval on Your Ass!

Along with Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev, Markéta Lazarová is arguably the greatest film ever made about medieval times. Is there any real competition? Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors by Sergei Paradjanov, perhaps? I suppose Bergman's work, specifically The Virgin Spring or The Seventh Seal, might get the war drums pounding at my statement. Undoubtedly, Orson Welles created one of the genre's finest battle scenes in Chimes at Midnight, a terrific picture indeed. Then we have Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc, a bona fide masterpiece, but its 15th century world is enclosed by churches, courtrooms, and torture chambers. Markéta Lazarová, on the other hand, runs as wild and free as the black wolves it depicts in stark contrast to the pure, white snowscape.

It may not rank among the most prolific nations in filmmaking, but a number of classics were born in Czechoslovakia/Czech Republic. Miloš Forman, the director of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Amadeus, is a Czech export who gained international recognition after making Loves of a Blonde and The Fireman's Ball in his native land. Other wonderful Czech films include The Shop on Main Street, Closely Watched Trains, Kolya, etc. Released in 1967, Markéta Lazarová may be the best of the lot, and was actually named the greatest by a group of Czech critics in 1998.

The story, based on a 1931 novel by Vladislav Vančura, concerns the Kozliks and Lazars, two rival 13th-century clans. Mikoláš Kozlik (Frantisek Velecký) and his one-armed brother, Adam, attack a group of men along the road, one of whom happens to be the son of a Count. This angers the king, who sends his top man, Captain Beer (Zdenek Kryzánek), to take care of the situation. Mikoláš tries to convince the Lazars to join in the conflict, but gets beaten to a pulp by them instead. The only bright light in all this is young Markéta (Magda Vásáryová), Lazar's daughter, a virgin who will soon become a nun. Knowing of her unspoiled innocence and her father's plans for her future, Mikoláš exacts revenge by kidnapping her.

Unlike Braveheart, where the Middle Ages are populated by beautiful people who appear to bathe twice a day, brush their teeth after each meal, receive their wardrobe each morning from the prop department, and make love beneath a moonlit sky as James Horner's score plays in the background; Markéta Lazarová is more concerned with reality. These people are plain and dirty. Their daily quest for survival transcends any thought of vanity. They act more like beasts than men. In fact, one of the clans in the movie superstitiously believes a legend that they descend from a line of werewolves.

Living conditions are awful, even for the nobles. Bandits murder hapless travelers while opportunists lie in wait to loot the fresh corpses left behind. There are incestuous relationships, more common in those days than Hollywood would have us believe. A young virgin woman is promised to the church, but after she is raped by a pagan, her own father and the local nuns reject her. As a prisoner, survival instinct compels her to fall in love with her own rapist; the alpha male and the only thing protecting her from getting raped by everyone else.

In case I have not been clear, a romantic vision of lords and their ladies fair this is not; more like dog eat dog and survival of the fittest. There is a very convincing depiction of the world of paganism on the one side, and Christianity on the other; both being seen as equally hypocritical and corrupt thanks to the ever present vices of mankind (greed, lust, thirst for power, you name it and it's probably here).

All of this was researched so thoroughly and captured with such authenticity that, like Kurosawa's Seven Samurai, it feels as though a movie crew traveled through time and rolled their cameras as these events transpired. There are no big stars. No Australian (Russell Crowe), playing an ancient Roman, while speaking English. No concessions whatsoever to Hollywood storytelling, heroes and villains, plot twists, or gratuitous spectacle.

The director, František Vláčil, spent years on this project and exercised a Kurosawa-esque obsession with detail. On the set of Throne of Blood in 1956, Kurosawa had an entire 16th-century fortress set torn down and rebuilt when he discovered the carpenters used steel nails in its construction. Even in the front row of the theater no one would have seen the nails, but Kurosawa could not stomach such inaccuracy.

For Markéta Lazarová, Vláčil insisted the costumes and sets be created in the same manner, with the same available materials, as they would have in the 13th-century. For a couple years, he made his actors live as hunter-gatherers in the woods to better understand the lifestyle. Even the language was stripped down to its primitive roots, and the composer of the wonderful score, Zdeněk Liška, fashioned several of his instruments from materials discovered in the wild. This passionate devotion is expertly captured through Bedřich Batka's brilliant Cinemascope images and Miroslav Hájek's sure-handed editing.

Perhaps best of all, Markéta Lazarová is one of those rare historical films that smartly refuses to view the past through a filter of modern morality. Vláčil does not pass judgment on these characters, he simply lets them exist. We have the benefit of hindsight when it comes to the wrongs of slavery, for example, but if we lived when it was common practice ninety percent of us would have nothing to say about it. This movie does not impose current attitudes on the lifestyles of 13th-century people; to do so may be politically correct by our standards, but it would also be complete bullshit.

I should probably admit that the first time I watched Markéta Lazarová in 2007 I found it nearly incomprehensible, due to the way the narrative jumps around, but the second time everything clicked. Plenty of movies reward multiple viewings, but here it is practically required. If you plan to watch this film just once, I recommend you do not even bother. If Pauline Kael were still alive, I would be frustrated to no end by her stubborn refusal to watch any film twice. If she ever saw Markéta Lazarová, she probably didn't like it. I was wrongly convinced, four years ago, that I didn't either.

Targeting Another Mann

Exactly three years have passed since my last entry in this blog on January 8, 2009, time enough to grow older and perhaps wiser. My posts were few and far between, ending in a two part analysis of the Westerns of Anthony Mann. When I decided to continue this blog, it became a personal goal of mine to update more frequently. Speaking of Mann, I decided to link my past efforts with the new by looking at The Tall Target, a criminally underrated Mann picture whose acquaintance I made recently.

Before my lengthy hiatus, I blogged ("All Aboard!") about Transsiberian, an exciting 2008 release directed by Brad Anderson. In the same piece I mentioned Runaway Train, The Lady Vanishes, and Murder on the Orient Express; films with similar settings. Well, I loved train movies then, and I love them now. Make no mistake, The Tall Target is one hell of a train movie and ranks among Mann's finest achievements.

Released in 1951, it claims to be based on a forgotten historical conspiracy to assassinate Abraham Lincoln on the way to his inauguration. Apparently this was an alleged plot where nothing ended up happening, but security measures were indeed taken to protect Lincoln aboard a night train to Washington D.C. in March of 1861.

Mann's version of events, smartly scripted by George Worthing Yates and Art Cohn, gives us a protagonist in the form of New York detective John Kennedy (Dick Powell). Kennedy, who served as Lincoln's bodyguard for two days prior to the election, recently caught wind of the plot and filed a report which no one on the force takes seriously. Why would they? It seems many people wouldn't mind seeing Lincoln on the receiving end of a bullet. As one man states, “I'd inaugurate him with a stout rope from a White House chandelier!”

It could not be clearer, The Tall Target takes place in a divided nation. People are concerned about war on the horizon once Lincoln takes office. Waiting to board the Night Flyer Express, a woman says, “Mr. Lincoln must take a firm stand against slavery once and for all”. With a sour expression, another passenger retorts, “As far as I'm concerned madam, the new president is Jefferson Davis of Mississippi.” This disgusts the first woman, who yells, “Secessionist!” The train essentially functions as a microcosm of the United States a century and a half ago, with tensions running high between the northerners and southerners aboard.

Forced to give up his badge, Kennedy boards the Night Flyer to thwart the plot himself. Things get off to a poor start when he discovers his friend, an inspector who wished to see him off and give him his ticket, has been murdered. Upon returning to his seat, Kennedy realizes he is being impersonated by a man, perhaps the murderer, who has his missing ticket. Luckily, Colonel Caleb Jeffers (Adolphe Menjou) is on board to vouch for Kennedy. A race against the clock begins as Kennedy must find his friend's killer, and discover who else is involved in the conspiracy.

The contrast between The Tall Target and many more recent films is staggering. The other day I sat through War Horse, Steven Spielberg's latest, and found myself pummeled into submission by yet another booming John Williams score. The music was so abusive, I expected Nigel Tufnel to charge in from the wings. Let's face it, we live in an era of big Hollywood spectacle and “louder is better” musical scores. How refreshing, then, is a movie like The Tall Target? Mann gives us a taut, tremendously crafted thriller with no bloated Hollywood moments and no score whatsoever. The setting comes to life brilliantly through sound effects alone, and the tale is so gripping even the most savvy viewers would be hard pressed to notice the lack of music.

Performances are nicely done all around, particularly those of Powell and Menjou, who despite his many roles continues to exist in my head as the Major General in Kubrick's Paths of Glory. A very young Ruby Dee (Mother Sister in Spike Lee's 1989 film, Do the Right Thing) plays a slave girl raised more like a sibling to her owner, Ginny Beaufort (Paula Raymond). Even the train conductor, played by Will Geer, manages to stand out. Truth be told, he happens to be involved in one of my favorite exchanges in the picture. When offered a drink by Colonel Jeffers, he declines as he is on duty. “Come on, come on, this is a tonic,” Jeffers insists, as the conductor takes a nervous look around. “Here, I'll get you some water,” Jeffers adds. The conductor quickly takes the straight tonic and responds, “Let's not dilute its medicinal value.”

Films of this type often live and die by their period detail, and The Tall Target gets it right. From the beginning, I believed these events were taking place in 1861. I absolutely loved seeing the Flyer dragged, by horses, through the city of Baltimore to prevent the engine smoke from polluting the city (a real law at the time). I also enjoyed seeing the Capitol Building under construction. Some have complained that Powell's suit isn't accurate for 1861, but I never noticed or cared. Credit simply must be given to Cedric Gibbons' art direction and Edwin B. Willis' set decoration. They were a talented pair, working on other fine MGM productions such as Singin' in the Rain, An American in Paris, and The Wizard of Oz.

About nine months after The Tall Target was released, Richard Fleischer's film noir, The Narrow Margin, came out. Like Mann's picture, it is a thriller set on a train, it uses no musical score, and the similarities don't stop there. The Narrow Margin has a contemporary setting, however, and tells the story of Walter Brown (Charles McGraw), a detective assigned to protect a mobster's widow (Marie Windsor) en route to California where she will testify before a grand jury. It's an exciting, well crafted movie (remade as the lackluster Narrow Margin starring Gene Hackman in 1990).

Unfortunately, producer Howard Hughes was so impressed with this “little B-movie that could”, he held up its release and planned to reshoot it with an A-list cast and budget. His wish never came true, and despite being completed before The Tall Target, the public saw Fleischer's film last. I have no idea whether or not Mann knew of The Narrow Margin or had insiders who ripped it off. Both films are wonderful, and stand on their own. Still, if forced to choose, I would cast my vote in favor of The Tall Target. I'm not fond of some of the twists in The Narrow Margin, and I prefer the character and atmosphere of Mann's picture.

It is always nice to come across a splendid, forgotten movie. Mann's work, I suppose, isn't so much forgotten as it is undervalued. The films are there, readily available in most cases, and just waiting to be seen. Cinema history does not seem to appreciate him as much as Ford or Hawks, but I certainly do. Three years ago I discovered his Westerns, a couple noirs, and a few epics. Now I come across a gem as substantial as this? I can not recommend Mann's work highly enough, and The Tall Target is as good a place to start as any.

Forgotten Mann: Part 2

The Far Country (1954)

This Western marks the third and final collaboration between the trio of screenwriter Borden Chase, actor James Stewart, and director Anthony Mann. It is also the weakest of the three, but still a pretty solid picture. One of the notable things about it might just be Stewart's emotionally distant character, Jeff Webster; arguably the most bitter person Stewart ever played on-screen. Jeff is a genuinely unlikable man who plainly appears to care only for himself. It is quite an achievement that Mann, Stewart, and the rest of the crew managed to make this "hero" watchable.

The year is 1896. With the gold rush in full swing, Jeff and his partner, Ben Tatum (the wonderful character actor Walter Brennan), plan to take a herd of cattle north to capitalize on the high demand for beef. Unfortunately, this means they have to travel through the town of Skagway, where they accidentally interrupt a public hanging and manage to get on the wrong side of the "law". Gannon (John McIntire), the one man sheriff, judge, and jury of Skagway, confiscates their herd as punishment.

In a scheme to retrieve his cattle, Jeff decides to help Skagway's saloon owner, Ronda Castle (Ruth Roman), get to the town of Dawson safely so she can open a new one. He outwits Gannon along the way, manages to recapture his herd, and then sells them for top dollar to Ronda because the desperate locals simply can't match her price. With the wealthy Ronda set up in town, monopolizing the business of catering to the miner's vices, it doesn't take long for Dawson to become another Skagway. Jeff doesn't seem to care, until Gannon and his men commit an atrocity he can not ignore...

Beautiful Alberta, Canada stands in exceptionally well for the Yukon here, and the cinematography by William Daniels captures the natural environments effectively. As usual, Stewart does a fine job, and it is always nice to see Walter Brennan as far as I'm concerned. Their relationship and the future they hope for, symbolized by the little bell on Stewart's saddle, holds everything together. However, it is John McIntire who steals the show, or at least every scene that he's in. His Gannon, while not a very complex character, is a tyrant with a sense of humor that oozes corruption out of every pore, and he remains one of the more memorable villains in a Mann Western. The women don't fare quite as well. Ruth Roman plays a bad girl that doesn't seem bad enough, and Corrine Calvet is so cute and innocent she borders on boring.

All in all, The Far Country is a good Western. Some of Stewart's icy reactions to events and the cynical dialogue that comes out of his mouth may have viewers in shock if their exposure to him has been limited to Frank Capra films. This movie has the ringing bell alright, but no angels will be getting their wings.

The Man From Laramie (1955)

Mann's first CinemaScope Western, and his last picture to star James Stewart, tackles many of his usual themes; revenge, obsession, failed patriarchs, and so forth. Moreso than any other, however, The Man From Laramie has echoes of Shakespearean tragedy (King Lear to be exact). While it was certainly not the first time Mann had imbued his pictures with a mythical or Shakespearean tone, this one could almost be called “The Bard of the West”.

The story begins with Will Lockhart (James Stewart), a man on a mission less simple than it appears. On the surface, he looks to be a delivery man, willing to take his wagon train of goods through dangerous Indian country. In truth, he is an ex-cavalry officer, and his genuine motive is discovering the party responsible for selling repeating rifles to the Apaches, who in turn used them to kill his brother and several other soldiers.

After delivering the goods to Barbara Waggoman's (Cathy O'Donnell) store in the town of Coronado, Lockhart decides to load up the wagons with salt to sell after the journey back. This gets him involved in a bloody dispute with Barbara's crazy cousin, Dave (Alex Nicol), since the salt lagoons are on his family's land. Dave's adopted brother, Vic (Arthur Kennedy), is seemingly more level headed and tries to keep the peace. All of them, and practically everyone else within “three miles in any direction”, answers to their father, the rich and powerful Alec Waggoman (Donald Crisp). Alec offers to compensate Lockhart for any losses his son caused, but Lockhart refuses to leave town, and thus becomes inexorably tied up in the Waggoman's affairs.

Fortunately, Lockhart finds an ally in Kate Canady (Aline MacMahon), a rancher living nearby who used to be engaged to Alec. He does some work for her while digging up what he can on the Waggomans, who deal with their own interfamilial conflicts in the meantime; will the keys to the kingdom be left to the more capable man or the natural born son? Not surprisingly, Lockhart discovers there are ties between the Waggomans and the Apaches going way back, and he starts picking up the scent of the people partly responsible for his brother's demise.

Made on-location in New Mexico, the film is beautifully photographed by Charles Lang, who worked on many a classic, including four pictures by the great Billy Wilder. It is based on a 1954 Saturday Evening Post story by Thomas T. Flynn, and adapted for the screen by Frank Burt and Philip Yordan. Most importantly, it is quite a good movie, though it could do without the hokey ballad during the opening credits, and Alec's far-fetched dream foretelling the coming of Lockwood. Most of the performances are solid though, aside from Alex Nicol as Dave. He overplays a character that is already too mean, too dumb, and too whiny as written. There is just something a bit embarrassing about a forty year old man saying “I'm gonna try Pa, I'm gonna try to be like you want me from now on!” Then moments later, “I just want to be able to stand on my own feet, Vic won't let me!”

This may also be Mann's most violent Western, with the famous “hand shooting” scene, a scene where Stewart is dragged through a fire, and another where donkeys appear to be blown away at point blank range. The violence is never gratuitous though, which can not often be said for more recent pictures. The Man From Laramie is an ambitious film, indeed, and there is an awful lot to like here. Perhaps a few people would even name this as their favorite of the Mann and Stewart Westerns, but for me it isn't quite on the level of The Naked Spur, Bend of the River, or Winchester '73.

The Last Frontier (1955)


Here we have it, arguably the weakest of Anthony Mann's Westerns, unless one counts Cimarron, but aside from the impressive "Land Rush" sequence, that one rarely even feels like a Western (Mann creates miracles on-location, but far too much of Cimarron was done on phony looking sound stages). I'm not sure what Mann thought of Cimarron, but he did say, “As far as I'm concerned, The Last Frontier is nothing but a dud.” He attributed this to the fact that he was never left alone, and “there were too many people involved in the project” who kept getting in his way. He loved the theme, he simply couldn't bring it to the screen in the manner he desired. For what it's worth, there are plenty of lesser filmmakers who would surely have loved a picture like The Last Frontier to be in their credits.

Adapted from The Gilded Rooster, a Richard Emery Roberts novel, The Last Frontier takes place during the Civil War and stars Victor Mature as an uncivilized mountain man named Jed Cooper. On a typical day that finds he and his fellow trappers out in the wild doing their thing, they are surrounded by Indians and all of their goods, weapons, and horses are taken from them. According to Chief Red Cloud, this was done because they are upset about the nearby Union fort on their land. Seeking compensation for their loss, the trappers go to the fort, and suddenly find themselves employed as scouts for the army.

From there, Jed decides he wants to earn a uniform, but his uncouth ways lead to his falling in lust with Colonel Frank Marston's wife, Corrina (Anne Bancroft in her pre-Graduate days). As it happens, going after another man's wife isn't so bad as long as the husband is as nutty as the Colonel (apparently modeled after history's General George Custer). Supposedly more intelligent and civilized than Jed and his buddies, the Colonel is the ideal model of a poor leader. Having already led his men into a massacre at the Battle of Shiloh, he decides to do it all over again, charging headfirst into Indian territory. Jed must save the day, and prove there is still a place in the world of encroaching civilization for his primitive skills.

It is almost a shame that so much of the film takes place at night, as it was shot on-location in rather picturesque country. The Last Frontier is definitely easy on the eyes. I only wish I could say the same for Victor Mature as the lead. He really got on my nerves in this one with his goofy demeanor, and I much preferred his performance as Doc Holliday in John Ford's My Darling Clementine (1946). Then again, the dialogue was pretty silly at times, so the writers deserve partial blame.

Thankfully, right when things are getting a bit dull, Mann throws some excitement our way. Throughout his career, Mann always handled action sequences expertly, and the major one here is no exception (it pleasantly reminded me of the action bits in Devil's Doorway). Still, while The Last Frontier has moments that rise above the rest, it can not be recommended as a great film.

The Tin Star (1957)

Almost as little known and underrated as Devil's Doorway, The Tin Star may be a touch formulaic compared to the greatest Mann Westerns, but it remains a good film regardless. It was a production that represented many firsts in Mann's career. For instance, this was the first and only film he made with actors Henry Fonda and Anthony Perkins. It was the first and only time he worked from a screenplay by Dudley Nichols, the screenwriter responsible for many John Ford pictures including Stagecoach (1939), The Long Voyage Home (1940), and The Fugitive (1947). 1957 also marked the first year Elmer Bernstein composed music for a Mann picture, including this one and Men in War. Furthermore, The Tin Star was a return to black & white for a Mann Western, last seen seven years earlier in The Furies.

The story takes place in a small town where the sheriff has recently been killed, and his daughter's boyfriend, Ben Owens (Anthony Perkins), is the replacement. Despite being as green as they come, Owens is determined to fill the boots adequately, but his girlfriend demands he quit after seeing what happened to her father. Setting the drama in motion, a bounty hunter named Morg Hickman (Henry Fonda) arrives with an outlaw's corpse in tow, determined to fetch the reward. Getting Morg his money turns out to be a lengthy process, however, and since the local hotel is afraid to give him a room he decides to stay on the outskirts of town with a young widow (Betsy Palmer) and her son, who are also outcasts. Her boy is half Indian, so the townspeople look down upon her.


The rest is pretty straightforward, it must be said, while always remaining interesting and well made. Morg gets closer to the widow and her son during his stay, and as an ex-sheriff himself, he teaches Ben how to be worthy of wearing that titular “tin star”. There is a conflict that rears its head, obviously, and Ben must step up and prove to the town that he is strong enough to enforce the law. As is par for the course in Mann Westerns, rocky hills and terrain are used to great effect in a nicely done action sequence near the end. The most memorable scene, however, has to be the one where a murdered man arrives by horse-drawn carriage to his own birthday celebration. Scenes such as this make it difficult to imagine anyone accusing Mann of sugarcoating or shying away from disturbing and violent images.

Truth be told, while the performances are fine all around, Henry Fonda could do this role in his sleep and very well may have. Perkins as the apprehensive young sheriff seems to be warming up for his role as Norman Bates in Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). There is also a decent amount of sermonizing, and this seems to be one of Mann's talkier pictures. Nonetheless, The Tin Star is still a movie I would recommend. It is, at times, lovely to look at, and it certainly has a heart.

Man of the West (1958)

Though Gary Cooper got his start in silent era Westerns, one can not help but think of Fred Zinneman's High Noon (1952) when “Gary Cooper” and “Western” are mentioned in the same sentence. This is a bit unfortunate as it seems to come at the expense of another wonderful Cooper Western, and one of Anthony Mann's finest films; Man of the West. Expertly adapted for the screen by Reginald Rose from The Border Jumpers, a 1956 Will C. Brown novel, Man of the West deals primarily with a character who, like countless Western heroes, can not escape his past. In this instance, the hero is forced to embrace those old ways one last time before he can be purged of them forever.

The “man” of the title is Link Jones (Cooper), a former outlaw, entrusted by the people of his little town with the task of traveling to Fort Worth to find a suitable school teacher. To accomplish this goal, Link carries payment with him, a bag of gold coins gathered by the townspeople. Despite Link's past, the members of his community see him as a changed man; a married man with two children and a kind disposition. For Link though, this job still represents his right of passage from outlaw to ordinary law abiding citizen. He has the trust of the people, and he must honor that trust.

Unfortunately, the train to Fort Worth is held up as several of the passengers are helping to gather wood for the engine. During the attack, the lone guard fights back and manages to get the train moving again, but Link and two other survivors are left behind. Stuck in the middle of nowhere with Sam Beasley (Arthur O'Connell), a cowardly card sharp, and Billie Ellis (Julie London), an attractive woman who works in low-class dancehalls, Link decides their only chance is to find shelter at a nearby farmhouse he lived in as a young man.

To Link's surprise, the house is still populated by the gang he used to run with, and the failed train attack was their doing. Dock Tobin (Lee J. Cobb), Link's uncle and the leader of the gang, gives an angry, yet nostalgic speech about how he cared for the orphaned Link years ago, trained him to be his best man, and was subsequently abandoned by him. Despite this, Tobin remains foolishly optimistic that Link has returned to the gang by choice. This provides Link some room to navigate hostile but hopeful waters, as he tries to keep himself and his two companions alive. To do so, he must convince the gang of his loyalty, while resisting the seductive pull of the murderous lifestyle he used to enjoy. Making matters rough, Tobin wastes no time putting his next plan into action; he intends to cross over to Mexico, robbing a bank in a town called Lassoo along the way.

Shot in splendid CinemaScope by Ernest Haller, this is one of Mann's most visually impressive films, but also one of his most unflinchingly brutal, especially considering the time when it was made. There is London's humiliating forced striptease while Cooper has a knife at his throat, an outdoor brawl that makes the famous bar fight in Shane (1953) look like an enjoyable tussle between friends (it seemingly influenced the fight in the third season of Deadwood as well), and even a rape that occurs off-screen. The striptease has been unfairly compared, on more than one occasion, to the rape scene in Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs (1971). I suppose one could argue that Mann's scene may be titillating to the male demographic, but the key difference is that London's character never shows any outward signs of enjoying what she is doing. In Straw Dogs, Susan George's character resists her rapists early on, but then seems to derive pleasure from the ordeal. Frankly, the scene in Straw Dogs works thematically for that picture, but the comparison is neither accurate nor fair.

When it comes to the casting of Man of the West, it seems the detractors and fans alike have mixed feelings. Some have claimed Gary Cooper is too old for the part, others have expressed dismay about Lee J. Cobb's “overacting”. Personally, I have no issues with the casting and I think Cobb does a solid job. Cooper's age here in relation to Cobb's character (the older in real life playing the significantly younger man here), is not as unbelievable as a forty-seven year old Robert De Niro playing a twenty-eight year old the first time we see him in Scorsese's Goodfellas (1990). Both still give great performances within great films.

Then there is the finale, an exciting showdown handled as brilliantly as anything Mann ever did. I would go so far as to say it feels somewhat like the “model” other Western filmmakers followed after, including but not limited to Sergio Leone (whose The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and Once Upon a Time in the West seem heavily influenced by Mann). This sequence really adds perspective to the comment, “When the camera pans, it breathes,” offered by the famous French film critic Andre Bazin in reference to Mann's filmmaking. It is an exemplary scene, without question.

While I would choose The Naked Spur as Mann's best film, Man of the West is probably second. I say “probably” only because I have a soft spot for Bend of the River that few people share. The bottom line is, this is a fantastic Western, and a must for all Western fans, Cooper fans, Mann fans, and/or fans of great films in general.

ADDITIONAL NOTE:

The recently released Films of Budd Boetticher DVD box set should be required viewing for Western fans. Five films are included: The Tall T (1957), Decision at Sundown (1957), Buchanan Rides Alone (1958), Ride Lonesome (1959), and Comanche Station (1960). All of them were quickie Westerns, low-budget B-pictures made on tight schedules of a few weeks, at best. Each was directed by the colorful Budd Boetticher, an American who became a bullfighter before moving into filmmaking, and the star of each was Randolph Scott, one of the great Western heroes as far as I'm concerned.

What makes these films special, particularly the ones written by Burt Kennedy (all but Decision at Sundown and Comanche Station), is the way they manage to rise so far above their humble roots. Boetticher may have had B-movie schedules, financing, and talent to work with, but he was never actually making B-movies. Everyone was at the top of their game in these pictures, and over the years it has become clear they surpass many a larger budgeted Western epic.

The best of the bunch, in my view, are The Tall T and Ride Lonesome, with the former being particularly surprising in the raw brutality of its villains, somewhat like Man of the West. The set has a nice documentary included about Boetticher, film introductions by the likes of Martin Scorsese and Taylor Hackford, and three separate commentaries. It is fascinating to see what a talented filmmaker can do on budgets nowhere near what Anthony Mann, John Ford, or Howard Hawks had for their pictures. The Tall T and Ride Lonesome are right up there with some of the best Westerns ever made, and those who enjoy them should also pick up Seven Men From Now (1956), another Boetticher/Scott Western available as an individual DVD release.

Forgotten Mann: Part 1

No, I'm not referring to Michael Mann, Terrence Mann, or Thomas Mann. I'm talking about Anthony Mann, one of the great Hollywood filmmakers of the 1950's who never quite gets his due. As a fan of James Stewart and a lover of good Westerns, I am embarrassed to admit that I was not familiar with Mann's work until fairly recently. To be perfectly honest, I find it baffling. After all, I've seen the films of Bela Tarr, Theo Angelopoulos, Krzysztof Kieslowski, Satyajit Ray, Ousmane Sembene; one can name just about any notable filmmaker, and chances are I'm familiar with their work. Adding insult to injury, Mann is an American director, which can only mean I was so busy staring at all the mountains in the distance that I missed the one I was standing right on top of. So in the last few months I've been busy remedying that problem, and doctoring my bruised ego.

Though he worked in several genres throughout his career, including historical epics (El Cid and The Fall of the Roman Empire), war movies (Men of War and The Heroes of Telemark), musicals (Moonlight in Havana, My Best Gal, Nobody's Darling, etc.), and film noir (T-Men, Side Street, Raw Deal, etc.); his Westerns are the best remembered, and for good reason. I strongly believe Anthony Mann deserves to sit alongside John Ford, Howard Hawks, Sam Peckinpah, Sergio Leone, Budd Boetticher, and Clint Eastwood in the pantheon of great Western directors. In fact, most of his Westerns are of such high quality that it is difficult to choose the finest among them. This amazing period in Anthony Mann's career began with...

Devil's Doorway (1950)

Though it was not released until September of 1950, after both Winchester '73 and The Furies, Devil's Doorway was Mann's first Western. The controversial subject matter made the studio nervous, so it sat on the shelf until about two months after another Indian sympathizing film came out and made waves at the box office. That film was Delmer Daves' Broken Arrow, starring James Stewart, which told the story of a white man and an Apache chief who dared to create a peace treaty between their people. Broken Arrow got the accolades, while Devil's Doorway sat in its shadow, garnering neither the box office success or critical acclaim of Daves' film. These days, however, it seems abundantly clear that Devil's Doorway was, and is, the superior movie.

The plot follows Lance Poole (Robert Taylor), a Shoshone Indian who fought valiantly for the Union in the Civil War and expects to live in peace on his tribal lands after returning home. Unfortunately, he discovers that Indians have no right to their own land, they must settle instead for the reservations provided them. Poole decides to hire a lawyer, Orrie Masters (Paula Raymond), to defend his legal rights to the land, which homesteaders intend to come in and claim as their own. According to law, however, those rights simply do not exist for men like Poole. Masters risks her reputation in an attempt to change the law in Poole's favor, as he prepares for a last resort life or death showdown. He would rather die than give up his land, the “soul” of his people.

Some have expressed dismay at the casting of a very Caucasian Robert Taylor in the lead role, but he actually does an admirable job. Of course, it doesn't hurt that he was backed up by an able supporting cast, John Alton's exquisite cinematography, an intelligent script by Guy Trosper, and Anthony Mann's confident direction. The film possesses a look and feel that are both distinctly noir-like, and Devil's Doorway represents, along with The Furies, the last time Mann would employ such a style in his Westerns.

While Devil's Doorway may not be the most celebrated of Mann's films (it remains one of the hardest to find), it deserves to be counted among his better pictures. The preachiness of Broken Arrow is avoided here, and the plight of the Indians is dealt with in a more brutally honest and respectful manner. It is an effective story, well told, and deserves much better than the occasional airing on TCM with no DVD release in any region.

Winchester '73 (1950)



A beautifully photographed black-and-white Western, Winchester '73 marks the first collaboration between James Stewart and Anthony Mann, who would go on to work together on seven more films, four of them Westerns. Thanks to a wonderful screenplay courtesy of Borden Chase (Oscar-nominated a year prior for his work on Howard Hawks' Red River), they couldn't have asked for a better start. Like Rene Clair's 1931 musical, Le Million, or 1997's The Red Violin and a number of other pictures, Winchester '73 follows a prized item as it changes hands, moving from owner to owner. Here, instead of a winning lottery ticket or a flawless violin, the object of desire is a perfect “one-in-a-thousand” Winchester Model 1873.

The story begins in 1876, when such a rifle is being awarded to the winner of a shooting competition in Dodge City. Knowing it will bring the interest of outlaw Dutch Henry Brown (Stephen McNally), our heroes, Lin McAdam (James Stewart) and High Spade (Millard Mitchell), descend upon the town. Lin enters the contest, narrowly defeating Dutch Henry, with whom he obviously has a bad history. After taking possession of the Winchester, Lin is jumped in his hotel room, and Dutch Henry flees Dodge with the prize. A short time later, with Lin in hot pursuit, Dutch Henry is forced to sell the rifle to a trader, but he has every intention of getting it back. The Winchester's journey has only just begun...


Despite the rifle's ever shifting ownership, the story remains focused on its pursuit, and the major characters themselves, which go on to include Steve Miller (Charles Drake) and his girlfriend, Lola Manners (Shelley Winters). Despite some rather distracting cameos, including Rock Hudson as an Indian chief (who approved that casting?) and Tony Curtis as a random cowboy, Winchester '73 has solid performances all around. Unfortunately, the final “twist”, if one can call it that, is pretty obvious early on, and feels a bit anti-climactic when finally revealed. Still, the film is well crafted from beginning to end, and deserving of its reputation as a classic Western. The final showdown is wonderfully executed; no fast draw cliches, just two foes locked in a bitter, ugly, and desperate struggle to be the last man standing.

The Furies (1950)

Mann's third Western remains the most noir-like of his career, with Victor Milner's cinematography clearly resembling John Alton's work in the earlier Mann films, T-Men, Raw Deal, and Devil's Doorway. The low-key lighting and moody interiors will have most viewers looking around aimlessly for private detectives in fedoras. James Stewart is also missing here, but The Furies still has a rather formidable cast including Barbara Stanwyck, Walter Huston (in his final role), and Wendell Corey.

Based on the novel by Niven Busch, The Furies is the story of an old widower, T.C. Jeffords (Huston), and his daughter, Vance (Stanwyck), as they love each other, grow apart, and eventually seek to destroy each other in 1870's New Mexico. T.C. runs the Furies, a vast expanse of ranch land, as if it were an “empire” and he its “feudal lord”; a comparison noted in the opening titles. Alas, having accrued incredible amounts of debt over the years, T.C. has resorted to paying them off with his very own currency, worthless bills egotistically referred to as T.C.'s.

A west coast banker agrees to a sizeable loan, but only if T.C. can get rid of all the squatters living on the Furies, including the Herrera family that Vance grew up with and cares for dearly. In addition, Vance falls for Rip Darrow (Wendell Corey), a man who despises T.C. over a land dispute and the murder of his father. When T.C. offers Darrow his daughter's fifty thousand dollar dowry if he will forget about her, he accepts. Thus, the seeds are planted for a battle between father and daughter.

This is a well acted, handsomely made, and all around worthwhile film. Unfortunately, it also tends to feel a bit like a soap opera at times. The Furies is a rich and rewarding experience, on the one hand, but it may also be Mann's most flawed Western aside from The Last Frontier (1955) and Cimarron (1960).

Bend of the River (1952)


This superb, underrated Technicolor Western easily ranks among the finest ever made. For their second collaboration, working again from a Borden Chase script, Anthony Mann and James Stewart surrounded themselves with another splendid cast and crew. The story, like many Westerns at their core, is about starting anew; leaving the past behind in favor of a fresh start.

The year is 1847 and a wagon train of simple farming families, led by Jeremy Baile (Jay C. Flippen), cuts across the landscape toward Oregon Territory, seeking an escape from constant violence near the Missouri border. Their guide, Glyn McClintock (James Stewart), has even more at stake: he can not simply run from violence, for it is the violence within his very soul which must be put to rest. Unbeknownst to the families who place their trust in him, Glyn was formerly a raider no different from those they flee.

One evening, after the wagon train stops to make camp, Glyn rides into the nearby hills and comes across a small group of men preparing an execution. Glyn rescues the victim, who gratefully introduces himself as Emerson Cole (Arthur Kennedy), an ex-border raider. Given their similar pasts, Glyn and Cole quickly hit it off, even teaming up to hunt down some Shoshone Indians who attacked the wagon train and injured Baile's daughter, Laura (Julie Adams).

Arriving in Portland, where the farmers intend to charter a steamboat and head upriver, they are enthusiastically welcomed by the owner of the town saloon, Tom Hendricks (Howard Petrie). Laura's arrow wound is tended to while the farmers buy food for the upcoming winter, with Tom's assurance it will be shipped to the settlement by the end of the month. Only, the shipment never comes...

To save their new community, Glyn and Baile head back to Portland, only to find that greed is at the root of their troubles. With the discovery of gold nearby, people have flooded into Portland, raising the price of food and supplies. Hendricks refuses to give them their goods at the price they paid, offering a refund instead. Glyn won't back down, and with the help of Cole and Trey Wilson (Rock Hudson), he flees to the steamboat where Baile has overseen the loading of their goods. Tom Hendricks and his posse pursue them in their race to get food back to the settlers.

Aside from being a grand adventure, with generous production values and fine performances, Bend of the River is more intimately concerned with the moral makeup of Glyn and Cole, two characters who see their reflection in the other. Baile believes that no bad man can change; he knows of Cole's past and hates him for it. Cole warns Glyn that if the farmers ever discover the truth about him, he would be equally despised. With that terrible prospect already hanging over Glyn's head, the journey back to the settlement is fraught with peril, temptation, and betrayal; constantly threatening to bring out the worst in his nature.

In short, this is an exciting, well written, and sumptuously photographed Western that doesn't get the credit it deserves.

The Naked Spur (1953)

Despite only five speaking roles and no built sets, Anthony Mann made a masterpiece in The Naked Spur, and it remains the film most would argue to be his greatest achievement (though Man of the West has a loyal following for that honor as well). This intense, psychological character study takes place in the vast wilderness of the Rocky Mountains, where nature itself seems to mirror what goes on in the character's minds. Cascading boulders, heavy downpours, caves teetering on collapse, and raging rivers all have their say, revealing an environment as tumultuous as the human conflict playing out within it. It is no coincidence that one scene has Howard Kemp (James Stewart) commenting on the “music” made by the rain. Perhaps it resembles the primal, elemental music of his soul as he struggles to suppress his humanity; the only hope he has of completing his mission.

In 1868, Kemp has relentlessly tracked the murderer of a marshal in Abilene, Kansas, all the way to Colorado. The accused killer, Ben Vandergroat (Robert Ryan), was an acquaintance of his, now wanted dead or alive for a bounty of five thousand dollars. Betrayed by his love, and desperate to buy back the ranch she sold while he was off fighting in the Civil War, Kemp seeks the bounty without fully grasping the means to that end. Though he attempts to justify his actions by telling himself and others what a terrible man Vandergroat is, he can not escape the fact that the fertile lands in his future would forever be tainted by another man's blood. As Jesse Tate (Millard Mitchell) says in the film, “He's not a man, he's a sack of money!” The problem is, he is a man first...

After losing Vandergroat's trail, Kemp comes across Tate, a down on his luck prospector who has recently discovered the remains of a campfire in the hills. Kemp, content to be mistaken for a lawman and making no mention of the reward money, offers Tate just twenty dollars to lead him there. Back on the scent, they eventually discover that Vandergroat is hiding on a mountain nearby. Lured by the sound of gunfire, a dishonorably discharged soldier named Roy Anderson (Ralph Meeker) shows up, and the three men eventually capture the target together.

Knowing he is bested physically, Vandergroat immediately begins a clever assault of another kind. He informs Tate and Roy that Kemp is no lawman, and he was just using them to get a five thousand dollar reward for himself. With no other options, Kemp agrees to split the reward three ways if they work together to get their quarry back to Kansas.

As it happens, Vandergroat is accompanied by a young woman named Lina Patch (Janet Leigh); he is all she has left since her father, a close friend of his, was killed in a bank robbery. The loyalty she feels toward Vandergroat, a surrogate father of sorts, is strong. She believes him innocent of the crime he is accused of, and Vandergroat exploits this knowledge to his advantage. Lina becomes a piece on the chessboard he uses to manage his escape. He uses Lina's sexuality the same way he uses Tate's desire for gold; having Lina create jealous rivals in Kemp and Roy, while he tries to convince Tate of the existence of a nearby gold mine. Though he is a prisoner, Vandergroat wields considerable powers of persuasion, indeed. As greed and mistrust begin to tear the group apart from within, one can not help but be reminded of John Huston's Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948).

This is a brilliant Western that stands tall among the very best in the genre. With fine performances all around, a terrific Oscar nominated screenplay (by Sam Rolfe and Harold Jack Bloom), wonderful on-location cinematography, and a rich psychological subtext, one simply can not go wrong with this one. The ending has been heavily criticized and may very well be the film's weakest element, but I would argue it isn't terribly unbelievable, given Kemp's characterization up to that point. Opinions on the ending notwithstanding, The Naked Spur is a must.

The Fairest of Them All

While most people see Blu-ray technology as being best suited for the latest blockbusters, I have always been more interested in what it can do for older pictures. In fact, even though 35mm films benefit enormously as well, my first thought when high-definition disc formats were announced was, “70mm films are finally going to look amazing in home theaters!” Keep in mind, the last major motion picture to be shot entirely in 70mm was Kenneth Branagh's adaptation of Hamlet twelve years ago, but the imagery of just about any well preserved 70mm film is capable of blowing away that of today's digital HD cameras. This may be hard to fathom for those who have never seen a 70mm film projected, but the proof has finally arrived.

Though several 70mm films have been released on Blu-ray already, including 2001: A Space Odyssey, Patton, and Grand Prix; none has been given the level of attention and care afforded to Ron Fricke's Baraka (1992). Most Blu-ray releases are digitized at 4K resolution from a 35mm source, but Baraka was digitized at a staggering 8K resolution from the original Todd-AO 65mm negative (the extra 5mm on 70mm film stock is for the soundtrack). The digitization process alone, done on a frame-by-frame basis, took three weeks to complete. Then the restoration artists went over each frame again, color correcting and digitally removing artifacts and damage sustained by the negative over the years. The result is simply brilliant; without question the Baraka Blu-ray introduces a visual fidelity heretofore unseen on disc.


Fortunately, Baraka is more than just an impressive home theater demo, it also serves as a fine example of pure cinema. Much like Godfrey Reggio's “Qatsi” trilogy (1982's Koyaanisqatsi, 1988's Powaqqatsi, and 2002's Naqoyqatsi), and Fricke's own 1985 IMAX feature, Chronos, Baraka is a non-narrative film. Audiences will find no characters here, nor any semblance of plot or words of spoken dialogue. Instead, for 96 minutes, we are immersed in beautiful images, haunting music, and the unique sounds of various environments. This style of motion picture has no roots in the stage or the written word, it is unique to the medium of film; thus the term “pure cinema”. Baraka happens to be one of the best examples, along with the work of Reggio, Stan Brakhage, Dziga Vertov, etc.

Perhaps Reggio's own words about his “Qatsi” trilogy best describe the intent of non-narrative/pure cinema films:

“What I decided to do in making these films is to rip out all the foreground of a traditional film – the foreground being the actors, the characterization, the plot, the story – I tried to take the background, all of that that's supported like wallpaper, move that up to the foreground, make that the subject, ennoble it with the virtues of portraiture, and make that the presence.”

Ultimately, Koyaanisqatsi was a stunning directorial debut for Reggio, but it also marked Ron Fricke's start in the industry, as he was both cinematographer and editor on the piece. It is a wonderful film, to be sure, and it shares a very similar style with Baraka, including many shots of natural and man-made landscapes, along with a liberal use of time-lapse photography. Its title translates to “life out of balance” in the Hopi language, just as the titles of the two subsequent films in the series mean “life in transformation” and “life as war”. Those small phrases provide a framework for the images, an overriding theme for each film. Koyaanisqatsi, for example, deals with humanity and their creations being at odds with the natural world.

Taking a page from Reggio's book, Baraka is a word that means “blessing” in several languages, including Kiswahili. Indeed, the film begins with the faith rituals of various cultures around the world on display. Even the opening shots – tranquil mountains, a bathing snow monkey, a solar eclipse – seem to suggest that a spiritual journey is to come. First we visit a temple in Nepal, then we see Tibetan monks, Turkish whirling dervishes, Christians and Orthodox Jews in Jerusalem, Zen priests in Japan, Muslims at the Kaaba in Mecca, the dances of the Maasai tribe in Africa, and the Kayapo, a group of Indians who call the Brazilian rainforest home. Perhaps the most fascinating display of faith in Baraka is the Kecak chant, performed by Balinese men at a temple in Indonesia.

By juxtaposing these religions, the film invites us to open our minds while embracing our differences. The devout of one religion may claim the followers of another to be heathens, but who among us can say which culture has it right? Baraka shows us that faith is universal, knows no boundaries, and should be celebrated in its many forms; inspiring hope, not hatred.

Through Fricke's lens, the veil is also lifted on cultural practices based around death. A group of Aborigines in Australia perform a Pukamani funeral dance. In another striking sequence, we witness the burning of a corpse on the Ganges river in India, and in one of the most incredibly beautiful parts of the film, we pass through the Masoleum of Shah-e-Cheragh in Iran.

Unfortunately, the cruelty of mankind can not be glossed over. Auschwitz in Poland, with the discarded shoes of innocent victims and their pictures up on the wall. The Killing Fields in Cambodia; a torture chamber, hills of skulls, and more pictures of frightened faces, forever etched in time. Remnants of the Gulf War; a destroyed convoy, burning oil fields. These sequences are difficult to forget.

Memorable moments abound in Baraka, even if most of them are far from uplifting. This is life as it is lived. A meditating monk dressed in traditional robes looks entirely out of place on a busy street in Tokyo, as if the rest of the world has gotten into a huge rush and forgotten a simpler time. Hundreds of young women spend their days making cigarettes, for little pay, at an Indonesian factory. Baby chicks are sent along a conveyor belt, sorted by sex; males being tossed down chutes to die, and females having their beaks burned off. Children care for even younger children in the streets of Brazil, having been abandoned by their parents. These kids were never given a chance, which makes their suffering tragic indeed. In a lighter moment, we see hundreds of people trying to cross a street at Shibuya Station, and it is both funny and fascinating thanks to time-lapse photography.

To make Baraka, Ron Fricke designed a special camera best suited for the job ahead. It could be controlled by computers, allowing the crew to scout a location, set up the camera, and mathematically calculate a program for the time-lapse shots in which the camera would also pan. Obviously, with time-lapse, a lot can (and often did) go wrong to ruin a good sequence. In fact, Baraka: A Closer Look on the Blu-ray disc reveals that the small crew, during their twenty-four country, six continent journey, faced plenty of difficulties. From customs issues at the airports and swarms of flies in Africa, to more serious problems, like a plane that nearly crashed and the Singaporian assistant cameraman nearly dying from a lack of oxygen over Mount Everest. Baraka was a more difficult film to make than it may appear, and surprisingly it only cost $4 million (a lot of which was probably due to the expensive 65mm film stock).

Whatever the hardships involved, Fricke and crew made a terrific movie. For many, Baraka is the pinnacle of non-narrative films (for others it may be Koyaanisqatsi, 1929's The Man with the Movie Camera, or something else). It is easy to see why. Baraka is at once gorgeous and unsightly, poetic and troubling. Not unlike the world itself. Amazingly, Ron Fricke believes his best film is still ahead of him. He and his crew are back at work on Samsara, a new 70mm picture to be released in 2009, about which Fricke says:

"I feel that my work has evolved through Koyaanisqatsi, Chronos and Baraka. Both technically and philosophically I am ready to delve even deeper into my favorite theme: humanity's relationship to the eternal."

Anyone else excited? At the very least, the quality of this disc should have everyone salivating over the possibilities for future 70mm releases on Blu-ray. David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia? Jacques Tati's Playtime? William Wyler's Ben-Hur? Sergei Bondarchuk's War and Peace? Bring them all on, I say.


PLEASE NOTE: The images seen here were captured by DVD Beaver and Blu-ray.com