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| Source: Wikipedia |
Clint Eastwood stars as The Man with No Name, the silver screen's favorite squinch-faced, cigar-chomping mass-murderer. Our scruffy serial killer wanders into a blood-soaked little rathole called San Miguel. At best it's a loose conglomeration of planks and adobe, but the town harbors two rival smuggler gangs.
Here it's crooked sheriff versus legitimate crooks, Americans versus Mexicans, gun boss versus booze boss.
ENTER: our boy Clint, machismo made flesh, to stir up the metaphorical pot.
ENTER: our boy Clint, machismo made flesh, to stir up the metaphorical pot.
He provokes the feuding families to fight each other, likely to milk both for the titular fistfuls of dollars, most likely to amuse himself. Never rushing, never struggling, never panicking. Clint just oozes, like tar in a smoker’s lung. He protects the innocent (enough people to count on half a hand) and grimly dispatches the rest.
And the grand finale predictably culminates in a macho standoff between hero and villain, whiskers versus mustache, Colt. 45 revolver versus Winchester rifle. The result? Predictably glorious.
EXEUNT: all.
The action screams classic. By that I mean, old. Expendable extras die dramatically, often bloodlessly. It’s easy to knock people out with a bop on the noggin or a slap on the cheek. Sadly, amid the fake punches, explosions, and old-school gunshot effects, there’s a tragic absence of the Wilhelm scream. Missed opportunity. They compensate for this oversight with plenty of piss-poor lip-synching.
One last word. If Clint paints the picture of the Western, Ennio Morricone’s score creates the sound and soul. Flutes, whistles, plunking piano, twanging guitar — the music gives life to the universe, making the ridiculous slaughter entertaining if not believable.
Recommended forgun nerds firearms historians, spaghetti [western] slurpers, and worshippers of Akira Kurosawa’s Yojimbo (#107).
EXEUNT: all.
The action screams classic. By that I mean, old. Expendable extras die dramatically, often bloodlessly. It’s easy to knock people out with a bop on the noggin or a slap on the cheek. Sadly, amid the fake punches, explosions, and old-school gunshot effects, there’s a tragic absence of the Wilhelm scream. Missed opportunity. They compensate for this oversight with plenty of piss-poor lip-synching.
One last word. If Clint paints the picture of the Western, Ennio Morricone’s score creates the sound and soul. Flutes, whistles, plunking piano, twanging guitar — the music gives life to the universe, making the ridiculous slaughter entertaining if not believable.
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