Cat Ballou

A promising recent graduate heads home to teach school, instructed to read the classics, even if she prefers trendy westerns.

Prone to seek justice yet mischievously enthused, she accidentally aids two ne'er-do-wells in their pursuit of reckless freedom.

Back home on the range her kind-hearted father (John Marley as Frankie Ballou) has enraged his covetous neighbours, who have corruptly engaged a cruel hired gun to dispose of his innate virtue.

She immediately responds in kind after having learned of the disgraceful deception, and hires a renowned gunperson of her own who turns out to lack reliability.

Soon woe melancholically descends with no recourse to lauded panaceas, and her gang of unorthodox misfits has relocated to a forlorn corral.

Yet Cat Ballou (Jane Fonda) is well versed in storied ethically clad adventurous pastimes, and refuses to let impregnability coldly prevent her from reacting non-traditionally.

Her newfound friends see sudden success after embracing strategically sound comeuppance, sincerely kerfuffling entrenched trajectories which presumed to cajole discordance. 

It's blunt and brandished bounteous barm proceeding in sultry sing song, the underprivileged thoughtlessly dismissed as they reimagine communal identities. 

Integrity harnesses spirit and exuberantly coaxes conundrums, which bewilder through sacrificed innocence impenitently reified. 

It's light of heart and rather merry as it confidently elucidates, upholding honest feminine strength through tribulation and testy temperance.

With insightful thoughts about marriage or relationships or plain old courtship or perhaps a fling, Cat deconstructs hardboiled gender bias yet still finds herself falling in love.

The musical accompaniment playfully enlivens crafty clemency cascading, direct yet quaintly coated in enchanted new age charm.

The traditions of the western see lay radical reversal, those oft dismissed their cares remiss enlightened brave dispersals.

Perhaps an oddball comedy like Cat Ballou would make more of an impact than serious drama, as it reaches a wider audience less immutably disposed.

A lot of people prefer absurdity since it more accurately reflects prim daily life, wherein which the application of reasonability sometimes leads to bumptious bedlam.

The immersion of absurdity in the arts anyways, not politics, reliable political leadership is preferable to instinctual madness.

Political leaders who don't toy with global tensions.

Because they respect their power and influence.  

A Million Ways to Die in the West

A Million Ways to Die in the West's opening credits make it clear that nothing within is to be taken seriously.

They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.

Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?

It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.

The blend's too sour.

That could be the point.

It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.

The jokes just aren't very sustainable.

Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.

Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.

But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.

With his lil' dog Plugger.

The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.

Correct.

That's correct.

The Lone Ranger

A naive child's material desires accidentally instigate a collusive capitalistic intercultural catastrophe, as contemporary conditionals refurbish historical hindsights with oratorical laments, and a story is told, details epically bulleted, questions, considerations, responses, internally and externally as the dialogue between listener and storyteller is narratively emboldened, and The Lone Ranger arrives incognito, possessing both lock and key, determined to develop a fair and equitable jurisprudent viaduct, even after it becomes clear that the canyon's been railroaded.

A sincere yet ingenuous circumspective screw, he lacks the pugnacious grit his fellow citizens unconsciously prevaricate, yet is aptly suited for the role of quizzical non sequitur, twisting and turning to fasten himself to the margins.

The film's first 45 minutes are a fast-paced exhilarating hyperkinetic mélange of symbolism and ideology, economically and stereoscopically situated, frothing, gushing, crushing.

The rest awkwardly yet entertainingly condenses myriad systemic tropes, honesty and integrity occupying the position of outcast in a direct no-nonsense Western filmscape (cinematography by Bojan Bazelli), wherein established politicians and lawbreakers represent both sides of an irremediable coin.

Tonto (Johnny Depp) and the Lone Ranger (Armie Hammer) activate a spiritually guided sense of justice, the former having no recourse to courts of law, the latter dedicated to enabling one.

The mask remains.

Also an imaginative account of what can be created if one frequently visits museums, libraries, art galleries, etc.

While taking an interest in sport.

Gunless

The new Canadian western comedy from director William Phillips examines the dynamic relationship forged between a wild individualistic American rogue and a settled congenial Canadian community. In Gunless, Sean 'The Montana Kid' Rafferty (Paul Gross) escapes from his hanging only to wind up surrounded by decent folk who are relatively ignorant of the American Wild West's code. His integration is smooth if not bumpy insofar as he quickly catches the eye of a local belle (Sienna Guillory as Jane) while still taking the time to 'call-out' Jack, the blacksmith (Tyler Mane), after he uses the word "common" in one of his introductory remarks. The plot comedically incorporates a basic formulation of Aristotle's conception of virtue (the virtue of a knife is its ability to slice) which causes Rafferty to dramatically (if not ironically) question his profession's means-of-production. Then, as he sacrifices his individuality for the community's greater good (after those wishing to hang him show up in town), that community responds in his defence by any-means-necessary.

And there's a gunfight, A-Team style.

The film intermingles slapstick relief with cerebral comic portraits (Rafferty and the carrot) in order to provide a sophisticated mix of jocular wherewithals. Structurally, some of the plot devices simply don't work insofar as The Montana Kid is much too friendly to be considered a ruthless killer, and who invites someone to dinner after they shoot up the local 'bar'/dry goods store? The title is problematic since the town isn't gunless and neither is The Montana Kid, the term "gunless" perhaps referring to Rafferty's identity crisis after winding up in Canada; but this doesn't sufficiently explain things since the town's residents do their best to build up his character, and the man he wishes to duel even reforges said duel's required second pistol even though he wants nothing to do with the duel itself. The relationship between Canadian history and Gunless's social dynamic is legitimate if not infantilized: the one Native character (Two Shoes played by Graham Greene of course) consistently outsmarts his liaison in the NWMP (Dustin Milligan as Corporal Jonathan Kent) and is consequently rebuffed (Native wisdom was overlooked and dismissed [or rewritten from an Anglo-perspective] as the West was Anglicized); there is only one character who speaks French (Anglophone policies of assimilation prevented a French Canadian identity from prominently developing in the West); the Asian family runs the local laundry, doesn't show up for the town dance, and is ignored in an educational setting (laws sought to prevent the immigration and integration of Asians into Western Canadian society [see Howard Palmer's Alberta: A New History][the Asian girl speaks perfect English but is introduced in isolation]); a prominent woman attempts to run her own farm (there must have been examples of strong women in frontier towns taking matters into their own hands who weren't segregated, but the fact that Rafferty's advice helps her to run her farm more efficiently still accurately reflects 19th-century patriarchal norms); and the ambiguously gay character is allowed to integrate as long as he marries and stays in the closet (however, the church is surprisingly absent from the film). Gunless also shows how Canadians are occasionally not as polite as they are generally depicted (when the NWMP troops give Montana a beating) while still depicting them as being generally polite. But this depiction is cultivated with its bold, underrepresented underside, for when push comes to shove, the town's inhabitants are ready to fight for what/who they believe in (Vimy Ridge, Québec's Bill 101). I liked Gunless for the ways in which it demonstrates the potentially productive relationship maintained between a community of individuals in a lighthearted, homely fashion (even if that relationship developed in less than two weeks). More cute and cuddly than rough and tumble, Gunless's theoretically absent arsenal still subtly presents an inordinate ordinance.

How Canadian!

The Assassination of Jessie James by the Coward Robert Ford

The entertainment industry's propensity to reinvestigate saintly and criminal cultural (and pop-cultural) icons is substantial. Again and again and again. Superman in high school, the Joker's back, the Legend of the Omega Man. I personally love how Space Ghost from Coast to Coast and The Brak Show interfilmically respond to this tendency using staple Western narrative tropes like “Hamlet” and “Psycho” to playfully expand the sublimely inter-dimensional terrain (we don't have to always focus upon Superman or Batman if we're not going to invent new characters). Andrew Dominik's The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford examines this propensity and exposes the formal underpinnings regarding the ethico-historical content of supposed criminals. By engaging in this dialogue, Dominik manages to draw a sharp parallel between Jesse James and Jesus Christ, while also showing how the ethical formal influence of the tragedy of Jesus's life and times can be reformulated politically (with seemingly contradictory content).

It's as if Dominik's stating that the crowd loves an outlaw and the elite love exploiting the crowd.

Within Dominik's film, we are introduced to a gang of crooks lead by the James Brothers (Brad Pitt and Sam Shephard). They are contrasted with the more cowardly Ford Brothers (Robert - Casey Afflek and Charley - Sam Rockwell) who end up killing Jesse. Further, while Jesse is a God-fearing religious man when he's not robbing trains, Robert is a weaselly opportunistic wretch. Throughout, we see Jesse's dementia getting worse and worse and the film subtly suggests that Jesse tricked Robert into shooting him (having grown tired of living like an outlaw, knowing his final years would be drenched in madness) (hence, Jesse isn't shot in the back, he's shot in the back while looking in the mirror). Solid performances all around, played to a haunting, morose score which simultaneously reminds one of Aranofsky's Requiem for a Dream and a made for t.v. historical drama (music being used to ironically deconstruct the seriousness of Dominik's content?). Affleck's performance also juxtaposes the austere and the commercial, at moments poignantly portraying the conflicted, tortured Ford, at others, coming across like an out-of-place, starving hack (is Dominik encouraging this juxtaposition in order to suggest that fluctuation leads to cowardice?).

In the end, Robert Ford is set up like a Judas: the coward who murdered his friend. Jesse James becomes somewhat of a legend, simultaneously revered, feared, and cheered, a heroic outlaw for the people. Ford, having murdered this figure, is outcasted, and his murderer eventually pardoned and released. The people asked Pilate to free Barabbas thereby condemning Jesus. Jesus was condemned and his memory resonates prominently to this day, his betrayer’s name eternally contemptuous. But within the legend we have Pilate (politics) asking the people (ethics) to free either a sinner or a saint (remarkable individuals, regardless of whether they are wicked or just). If the saint dies, his murderer is derided. But, as Dominik relates, if the criminal dies the perfidy of his betrayer results in his derision as well (popular criminals becoming Saintly). Dominik has picked up on the ancient cult of the exception, the cult of the wicked: treachery is still treachery in any state or form, and culture is generally unkind to the treacherous.

In some ways, it's a shame that Dominik took on this project, seeing how his debut Chopper chronicled the contemporary beginnings of a legendary outlaw, thereby tilling the ground from which subsequent subjective interpretations can be planted and objectified (rather than situating himself in an old-fashioned crop whose tradition has been cultivated for over a century). But his presentation of the legend does lend itself to meta-legendary insight, cutting the head off of snakes, shot in the back while looking in the mirror.

The cinematography by Roger Deakins is brilliant as well, but I've grown tired of qualifying films shot in gorgeous mountainous regions as having brilliant cinematography. If you chill in the country for a prolonged period with a photographer's eye, it isn't hard to shoot pristine shot after pristine shot. Afterwards, the beauty of these shots is exaggerated by urbanites who don't get to spend much time in the country and forget that solid cinematography comes from applying an artistic filmically-photographic eye to a seemingly empty panorama, coaxing split-second beauty from a derelict domain, a seemingly hollow yet enlivened reverberation.

Then again, I suppose this is precisely what Deakins was doing when he filmed the fish swimming beneath the ice.

3:10 to Yuma

James Mangold's retooling of Delmer Daves' 3:10 to Yuma is but another silly western. And considering the lack of Westerns being produced within Hollywood at the moment, it’s just in time. Enter one Ben Wade (Russell Crowe), the poetic leader of a gang of thugs who make their living robbing stage coaches and trains. When Wade isn't preaching from the bible, philosophizing about the nature of good and evil, or taking care of his brutal business, he calmly sits back and draws pictures, leaving his designs carefully positioned throughout the country, sinister signatures upon a lounging landscape. Dan Evans (Christian Bale) is chief amongst the 'lawpersons' devoted to delivering Wade to a train in Bisbee, Arizona, after his capture. Evans is a poor farmer whose about to be thrown off his land since his landlord plans to sell his property to the incoming railroad. That same railroad offers Evans the small fortune of 200 dollars to assist in transporting Wade to the 3:10 to Yuma, and with no other economic prospects in sight, he begrudgingly complies.

Wade takes a liking to gentle Dan and the dialogue between the two, the classic good vs. evil, hero vs. villain Western dialogue, ties together the various action sequences. The style of Mangold's film is foreshadowed in the opening credits, the words "3:10 to Yuma" appearing explosively, one by one, before disappearing quickly. What follows is a gunslingin' shoot 'em up Western where numerous battle scenes mingle with stretches of deadpan dialogue.

Wade's character is strong enough to drive 3:10 to Yuma to its conclusion, even if the film staggers along the way. For instance, Wade and Pinkerton Byron McIlroy (Henry Fonda) have been injured, therefore, the modest veterinarian Doc Potter (Alan Tudyk) must accompany them for their ride through the desert. He provides some great comic relief, notably the fact that his character doesn't remain at home or argue about going on a treacherous desert trip while being pursued by a gang of thugs. And why does the gang of thugs pursue their leader? They've just robbed a stagecoach and made off with a fortune, why do they feel compelled to rescue their frontman, even after he shot one of them during the robbery? Wade graciously reminds them that there's no honour amongst thieves, but not until we've benefitted from this notoriously noble, albeit problematic plot-twist. At the same time, 3:10 to Yuma displays some surprising subtlety throughout, as a young Chinese labourer glares down equally young William Evans (Logan Lerman), a glare designed to remind him that his seemingly destitute situation could be much worse. And the ways in which the traditional caricatures of the hero and villain are deconstructed throughout are provocative, if not somewhat peculiar during the film's climax.