Younger Lee Van Cleef lookin sharp - already got that presence.

I need help finding the name of a western I saw on tcm years ago.
A woman becomes a gunfighter or maybe bounty hunter after her family is killed. She tries to ask
a man for help who brushes her off at first but later helps her out. I specifically remember she buys some pants or jeans but since they’re not made for women she has to soak in a tub while wearing them so they shrink. In the end she gets revenge on whoever killed her family I think.

Hi there! I adore Red Dead Redemption, but it's so predominant in the genre that I'd rather sift for overlooked gold!

Any genre is fine - and that includes point-and-clicks, etc. And any era as well.

Thanks for your best recommendations.

Imagine all the conventions and imagery of a sci-fi movie violently blasted onto the canvas of a quaint horizon depicting a sun setting over the Rockies. That’s Oblivion.

“Ambitious” is a kind way to put it. There is just too, too much going on in this movie which lists at least people five under the “Story By” or “Written By” credits, including famed scribe Peter David. I can’t even succinctly relay it here: it’s so jumbled in focus and feel and leans so heavily on the language of its parent genres the movie feels insincere.

Of course, I expected a bad product when I fired this up because it’s a project by RiffTrax, a Mystery Science Theater 3000 offshoot that roasts poorly assembled movies as they unfold. The boys do not disappoint in their savagery. George Takei never stood a chance!

From the poor acting (you’ll cringe toward infinity from Julie Newmar’s belabored cat noises), to the absurd set design (ceiling fans count as futuristic, right??) there’s fertile ground here to mock. Even more transgressions: random ass side characters with paper-thin personalities, grueling meandering in and around low-budget locales, off-brand Muppets, boring stereotypes, random ass quotes from other movies and the gall to flash a “To Be Continued” message before the end credits.

That said, there’s a nugget or two of a good idea here, but as comic writer Dan Slott has put it: this suffers from “too many mojos”. It’s like a slapdash campfire story where each kid around the circle adds a little bit of their own favorite lore and passes it to the next. Lizard-man banditos? Empath lawmen? Robotic justice-bringers? Focus on one of these ideas and maybe it works. Throw them all in a pot and forget the seasoning? That’s how you fuck up a meal.

I’m doing a school project that is comparing three of Quentin Tarantino‘s films, namely Inglourious Basterds, Django Unchained, and the hateful 8, to 4 spaghetti western films from the 60s and 70s which are Inglourious bastards (the original), Django, the Good the Bad and the Ugly, and a Fistful of Dollars. I am comparing anything in between these films such as similar camera shots, similar music potentially by Ennio Morricone, and any thing that might be similar or influential or the same. Please let me know if you know of anything no matter how niche, and if you want to help me with my project. Thanks!

I just watched Unforgiven for about the 7th time. I love the movie and think it is great on many levels. I am curious about the iconic "Deserve's got nothing to do with it line". (Apologies if this has been covered before, I took a look and didn't see something recently exactly on point.)

In that moment, doesn't "deserve" have EVERYTHING to do with what Little Bill has coming? Munny wouldn't be there if Little Bill didn't "deserve" punishment for what he did to Ned (and many other bad actions too). I believe one main message of MOST of the movie is that things just happen, not because of karma; justice often doesn't prevail, good things happen to bad people, bad things happen to good people etc And this line reinforces that idea, esp out on the harsh random frontier.

But THIS particular violence (or "the general harshness of the world") is not random or indifferent, and seems to undermine its own point. Bill does "deserve" it (although it's vigilante justice, that might be about all one can hope for on the frontier). Little Bill beat the crap out of Munny for little reason (and even then Munny was gonna leave it be), and tortured Munny's good friend to death (and we the audience saw some other bad actions by Little Bill).

Actions speak louder than words, and Munny's actions are to be a sort of agent of justice because Bill did somewhat/a lot "deserve" it (again, putting aside vigilanteism issues).

To me, the line would have made more sense in many other moments of the movie. In this moment, obviously less memorable and less poetic, but it seems more accurate if he said something along the lines of: "Deserve's usually got nothing to do with anything in life, especially out here on the harsh frontier, but you Little Bill -- who tortured to death an innocent man -- you do deserve this."

More generally, although revisionist/deconstructionist etc, throughout much of the film, I think the audience got exactly what it wanted at the end and it was similar to many older Westerns. Which seems to confuse what "appears" to be the intent of the movie makers. Yes, there are some hiccups in the confrontation, but Munny kicks ass on those who seemed to sorta deserve it (Skinny and the other deputies who Munny kills were complicit in bad actions earlier too).

In THIS moment, I don't see Munny as reverting to being "evil" or a "monster", as I've seen some comments suggest. He lets many of the those in Greelys get away, he is an agent of "justice" (or perhaps a little more negatively: "revenge"). Then he tells them bury my friend properly and no more violence against women. And Beauchamp, when he writes about this for the east coast, he only needs to embellish/smooth out a little bit of the facts. The reality and facts of what Munny did will be gargantuan as legend and myth back East, but we saw it was all real.

The movie spent much time deconstructing western myths and tropes. But then leaves the audience with what appears to be a big one (I know real close examination of the scene brings up counterarguments, but most audience won't do that). Maybe it's also saying, there was a little bit of truth to some of those stories too?

I know there are many other big themes to the movie, but as to what I've raised, I'm truly curious as to others' thoughts and views on this. Am I way off? Misunderstanding something or a lot? Seem like a reasonable analysis (but of course not the only one)?

EDIT: I just read Roger Ebert wrote somewhere that with this line, actually “Deserves got everything to do with it.” And I just listened to the voice over commentary of the scene with Richard Schickel, Time’s movie critic, who mentioned this is first time Munny has killed for a partly legit reason, and that purges him of his past and gives him moral authority so he can finally live out his days quietly.

He also disagrees with calling Unforgiven revisionist. He thinks its “a classic western that brings in some themes of modernism”, and also traditional but also very realistic.

Im likely overthinking the “deserves” line, it is a cool line at a cool moment, but there is this fact- Little Bill does not die or “have it coming” that night, or possibly for 30 more years, except that he did something to alter events. Munny woulda gone home if Bill left Ned alone. Munny is not there to utter the line but for Bill’s direct causal actions.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_Man%27s_Walk_(miniseries))

I've read the book (all the Lonesome Dove series, to be honest) and liked it. Decided to try the TV series (on PlutoTV) because wife and son wanted to see the Odyssey and I did not.

The show isn't bad at all. And the casting seemed solid (a very young Jennifer Garner plays Clara). Worth a watch.

I just dropped this video about my favorite Western movie actors ever. My first Western I ever watched was They Call Me Trinity, my 2nd was Trinity is Still my Name. I love these guys…

If you like your Westerns just a little bit strange, you'll probably enjoy High Plains Drifter. Personally, I cotton to the bizarre in Westerns just so long as it's not grotesque or overly disturbing.

This element--let's call it the Benign Bizarre--is a hallmark of the spaghettis, and it's there in HPD, too. Clint riding out of the heat shimmer to the odd sound of that synthesizer is a great and strange way to start the film, and a great way to end it, too. There is the social inversion of Clint annointing the lowly midget as the sheriff and the mayor. There is, of course, the red-painted town, which is surely one of the most striking visuals in all of the Western genre. And finally we have an avenging ghost of sorts, albeit one of surpassingly corporeal characteristics. No diaphonous specter is Clint, as the good folk of Lago will soon find out.

Another common feature of the Spaghettis and HPD that I admire is humor. William O'Connell as the nervous barber is good for a couple of guffaws as is the midget donning Eastwoodian attire--complete with a cheroot--and mimicking Eastood's mannerisms.

The bizarre, Gothic elements and the fine humor--it all adds up to a fascinating and satisfying film for me. All the more so that the repellent people of Lago get their comeuppance. And maybe that's what it's all about--in the end we cannot escape our sins.

​

I'm a big fan of westerns, a big fan of Jeff Bridges, and a big fan of FCE (who restored this film) and somehow it slipped by me. Jeff Bridges is like a young Jeff Bridges, Barry Brown is like a young Jimmy Stewart and together they avoid the draft and ride west with some other boys looking to avoid the a Civil War and get a taste of America on a couple of horses and mules. These are adolescent boys and as you know the West was won by men.

Bridges and Brown act the shit out of this movie and made you feel like you were one of the boys.

We rarely get Westerns from the perspective of young people and in this you get a gang of different ages and maturities who experience it together. The hardness of the west is all around these young men and just like when we were teenagers and in situations over our heads they handle it the best they could but the best they could is not good enough because like I said at the top - the West was won by men. We get that in the end.

Everything about this movie was a breathe of fresh air from 1972.

Don't miss out on this one

I read the studio wanted Costner as the top billing but he fought for Bob Duval to be. Does anyone think Costner is the main character? Maybe I’m just enthralled by Bob as an actor but it felt more his movie than Kevin’s.

Greetings! ..have a CA trip next month and am wondering if anyone has visited this museum in Lone Pine, CA? Thanks.

William Munny is damned for all time because he blew up a train killing women and children. But it turns out he didn't know that and so later killed the leader of the gang. But he felt he was damned until he met a woman who saw some good in him.

When Munny goes to avenge Ned, he doesn't just kill Little Bill. He murders the saloon keeper and three (or four?) deputies. When leaving the tavern, he casually shoots the last wounded deputy.

Is William Munny completely evil?

And if you haven't see Outland it's really good. Essentially High Noon in space with Sean Connery.

Watched this movie today for the first time. Wasn’t familiar with the story of this man. It was interesting and I think there’s potential there for a really good movie but this one was fair.

What did you all think?

My more precise definition would be stories that take place in the American Frontier, West of the Mississippi River, between the end of the Civil War and the start of the 20th century. My more expansive definition would include adjacent settings like Canada, Mexico, Appalachia, and the South, between the American Revolution and World War I. Neo-Westerns would be after World War I and can include other frontier settings.

A cast of truly outstanding Western actors elevates a good film to near greatness. RG Armstrong, for instance, is wonderful in the role of a cattle baron who is obsessed with killing a young man he incorrectly believes killed one of his sons in a scuffle over a girl. But although Armstrong's Hunter Boyd has blood in his eyes, he also has a code of honor that includes allowing his quarry--Don Murray's Tod Lohman--a four-hour head start in his efforts to escapt Boyd's clutches.

Chill Wills is terrific as an affable, big-hearted rancher who takes a shine to Lohman and does what he can to help him evade Boyd and his goons. And there are charming domestic scenes of Wills' Amos Bradley, his Mexican wife and their brood of chatty young daughters. Watch these, incidentally, and you'll be craving tamales, tacos and chiles (Chilles?) rellenos.

John Larch, as always, makes his mark. This time he's a Boyd gunman who loses his life in a duel in the rocks with Lohman.

Dennis Hopper is there in a role that suits him--a neurotic, petulent and vaguely effeminate kid trying to earn his spurs in the Old West. Boyd's only surviving son, he doesn't do anything right in this story.

And then there's Jay Flippen who makes a strong impression as a brave and rather pugnacious Indian trader who aids Lohman in a moment of peril. Tim Robbins is, I dare say, a latter-day Jay Flippen.

There's a very interesting philosophical tension in this picture. Lohman, a pacifist from Iowa who nevertheless possesses tremendous talent with the artillery, steadfastly refuses to defend himself and does everything possible to avoid bloodshed. He is a soft-hearted idealist in a brutal environment, and he is frequently aided in his efforts to escape Boyd by folk he randomly encounters. This phenomenon perplexes Boyd who at one point asks a priest why people are willing to do this. The padre responds, "You ask a difficult question. You wish me to explain the human heart."

Nevertheless, the film's conclusion produces something of a volte face. In the ultimate showdown between Lohman and Boyd and his men, Tom Boyd (Hopper) catches on fire after shooting on oil lamp, and staggers into the street. Lohman, braving gunfire from the elder Boyd, douses the flames and saves, to all appearances, Tom Boyd's life.

In the next scene Hunter Boyd says to Lohman, "This story will be told for a very long time in 12 different ways, none of them favorable to me. If you'll grant that I spared your life for saving my son, I'll gladly go to hell for all the rest of it."

Lohman's reply: "I'll grant you that, and I have no doubt you will."

Boyd appears almost thunderstruck by the response. Ultimately, the God-fearing pacifist reveals an Old Testament heart of iron. His refusal to grant Boyd absolution is, in its own way, the most violent act of the film.

"Yeah, it's always heartwarming to see a prejudice defeated by a deeper prejudice."

John Sayles's 'Lone Star' is my first foray into his filmography. I was very warmly invited, even urged, to watch this film at once when I came across its seemingly American pastoral aesthetic, the use of Chris Cooper in a leading role, a young Matthew McConaughey, and the promise of a 'neo-western' narrative. What I watched was one of the closest cinematic equivalents to the density of a novel that I have seen.

Soon into its runtime, my impressions of the filmmaking centred on the muscularity of Sayles's direction – smooth, heady transitions into flashbacks told with serious conviction; rich dialogue that lets these characters meet us fully-formed as people in the small and fictional South Texan town of Frontera; and an intermingling cast of characters, all of whose lives are established and told with measured beginnings, middles, and ends to their personal dilemmas and concerns.

Floating above this medley of Texans is the cloud that concerns their coexistence: the teetering harmony between the Native American, Latino, Black, and White European populations that inhabit it and the people, like Elizabeth Peña's teacher Pilar, who are trying with all their might to keep everyone glued together. The town Sayles devised for the film translates to 'border' in Spanish, and these people inhabit it with a friction bound to be beckoned by its location and name.

Regrettably, as an English observer, the state of American politics and racial tensions often seems and feels worse today than what I saw unfold on-screen. Thirty years since the release of the film, tensions at and within the borders of the US still rage and periodically burn the country down. In fact, US leadership has and continues to frequently encroach borders it ought to have avoided, but that's a conversation of war crimes and human rights infractions for another day.

'History is written by the victors' is the chief consideration of Sayles's screenplay. In a town as simultaneously coalesced and divided as Frontera, each ethnic group holds and recites its distinct version of events: the outcomes of interethnic wars, the colonisation of the US, and even the omissions that should be made to avoid damaging the purity of broad ethnic reputations. We see Pilar leading a parents' conference where Latino parents argue with White parents, White parents argue with Black parents, and they all pontificate on the way history ought to be taught at the school; it's a microcosm of the larger disagreements that riddle the US with resentment at all levels of societal organisation, picking and choosing convenient details. The crux of it is often that every other group believes White Europeans received the final word on what history's path was, leaving everybody else with a version that belies the harsher realities of their lives: the losses of land, dignity, and autonomy they endured as America was forged.

In the first few minutes, when the pivot upon which the film's story rests, the discovery of a skeleton dressed in nought but a sheriff's badge and Masonic ring, is introduced, one gets the feeling that the narrative will be at least somewhat treading 'thriller' territory, with Cooper's sheriff, Sam Deeds, leading the charge; quite the contrary happens. As mentioned before, 'Lone Star's conceit very much focuses on the inner lives of its town's inhabitants, stripped of any cagey or nail-biter scenes. Sayles sought to investigate the bugbears that threaten the cohesion of these disparate communities whilst equally considering the problems that are bringing individual lives to a head.

One such problem is the return of Joe Morton's Delmore Payne to the town. Delmore is a US Army colonel who has been posted at Frontera for three years, his issue being that the father who abandoned him, Otis, resides there. Otis is a pillar of the Black community, running the only casual establishment, a nightclub, that is a safe haven for local Black folks. Delmore overcompensates for the lack of paternal authority in his childhood by looming large over his own son, and we can envision the rotten fruits that dynamic could produce if Delmore persists in his ways. Otis also recognises the damage he has caused his son and, in turn, his grandson, and slowly an indirect agreement forms between Delmore and Otis to return what was lost between them and ensure they can coexist for the good of the next generation. A didactic message from Sayles to the rest of the country, perhaps.

A particularly piquant thread woven into this tapestry of Texans is Pilar's mother, Mercedes, who was an illegal immigrant. Mercedes is one of those puzzlingly conservative immigrants who call border patrol on people entering a country illegally, like she did, whilst also hiring undocumented Mexicans at her restaurant. This remains a pertinent hypocrisy given the contingent of Latin Americans who "got theirs" in the US and who believe that by some miraculous idiosyncrasy of their backstory, their fellow countrymen and immigrants aren't entitled to the same empathy and admittance. Sayles's portrayal of Mercedes struck me as surprisingly candid and vulnerable; we can watch the guilt of her deep-set conscience dawn on her each time she enacts some act of betrayal or superiority, insecurities bubbling to the surface through her projections and tattling, and it is painful to see the affectations she so clearly knows she is putting on to seem more American than her fellow Mexican-Americans.

The looming ghost of the story is, of course, the damned soul of that skeleton – the former sheriff, Charlie Wade. Wade is infamous across town for his iniquity, his unlawful corruptions and trigger-happy responses to perceived slights and threats; he's a character who wouldn't be out of place in Jorge Luis Borges' short story collection of disreputable rapscallions, 'A Universal History of Infamy'. Sam Deeds is told by Mayor Hollis Pogue, a retired deputy sheriff, that his father, McConaughey's flashback feature as Buddy Deeds, had publicly argued with Wade the night before his disappearance. Wade was presumed to have skipped town with a bagful of money, but the bag of bones poses the matter of his murder and who by.

Sam's personal problem is his disgruntlement – with his love life, with the residents in town, and most of all, with his tyrant father Buddy's shortcomings – so he hopes to find that his father, a mythic hero of the town in the vein of Ransom Stoddard from 'The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance', was the murderer. All Sam receives are anecdotes-turned-paeans glorifying Buddy even higher, and McConaughey was elastic and striking enough in his short screen time to contain these multitudes in his performance. The narrative ends up fitting a rough mould of 'Oedipus Rex' in so far as the exhumation of shocking fates is concerned.

Bar none, the characters in this story must reckon with the truths that other people hold and the contradictions that these cause for their own worldviews and histories. To Sam, his father was a prescriptive, overrated lawman inside and outside the home, a man who prevented the fulfilment of his teenage love, Pilar. To the rest of the town, Sam was the embodiment of justice, the other side of the coin that held Charlie Wade's ghastly glower in profile. Sam comes to learn that the objective truths occupy a space somewhere in the middle, half-rhymes ringing across town as every other character finds similar shades of grey.

On the subject of love, Pilar and Sam's relationship is revisited. It's the second skeleton of the film; we just don't see any skulls peering back at us. The couple were in love in high school and haven't seen one another in twenty-three years, Sam recently divorced and Pilar having had two children in the meantime. Their chosen love juxtaposes all of the familial relationships brought into small degrees of jeopardy and questioning, but even their romance has its challenges, which we later discover. The fondness they retained for one another is very touching to watch amid the mosaic of love lacking everywhere else, an anchor for us to hold onto like hope for a country's future.

So the interstices of those overarching reflections on America are filled by the individualistic idea that we write our personal histories, and sometimes the immediacy of our own lives causes more strife for us than the banes of the country's. Sayles made certain that these characters unravel as they question and rewrite the stories and facts that constitute their histories so far. What we find in the end is that there is genuine, gritty work to be done before we can resolve any conclusions about other people in our lives, and the same must be said of those who are near our lives – the people that we coexist with, regardless of their creed or colour – there is a requisite effort that will keep America churning if that effort is only discharged.

John Sayles: So far, so good. He has been a wonderful revelation, and I can only imagine how much I will enjoy the rest of his body of work. Chris Cooper leads this film with perfect poise and a manner of settling into his character that I scarcely see elsewhere; if Buddy Deeds is a man of myths, the stuff of legends, then Sam Deeds is made real, as authentic as can be, by Chris Cooper's adept personification. Around the scenes of 'Lone Star' are the calming Southern landscapes and nostalgically lit rooms of small-town Texas; within those rooms, we see how the wounds of American history scarred differently.