I was born into a shit-kickin' family. My father's parents
were Eastern Washington farmers, and my sister Susan married into a local dairy
family, and - well, what more do you need?
Evidently it’s in our DNA. My brother Leonard worked in grocery stores his whole life, and yet he talks like Walter Brennan. He was, for a fact, born on my parents' farm, during a brief period in their early married life during which they were farming, but still!
Anyway, everyone in my family loves Westerns, and the whole Old West folklore thing. (When Leonard found out I was doing our family history, he drawled: "Are we descended from any horse thieves?" Evidently that would have been perfectly delicious. The reality - some Polish peasants, some Italian peasants, some English hooligans and riffraff - just isn't colorful enough, in a six-guns-and-Randolph-Scott way.)
Every once in a while I try to reassociate myself with my Boot Hill roots and watch a few Westerns on TMC. Sometimes they're harmless enough that they sort of wash over me. But - you know? - a lot of them - most of them - just aren't very good.
(Disclaimer: Yes, I know that there are some classics, like "Cimarron" and "Stagecoach" and "Red River." I have seen at least ten minutes of each of these - more of "Cimarron," because it has Irene Dunne in it – and they are all lovely. I stick by my original point, however. Read on:)
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Westerns are all depressingly similar.
I will spare you a recitation of plot points, cliches, situations, etc. I will
only say that I recently fell asleep during a Jimmy Stewart western, woke up
about ninety minutes later during another Jimmy Stewart Western, and was
uncertain for a few minutes if it was the same movie.
·
They certainly save money on costumes and
sets. I'm sure there was a kind of Studio Western Kit, containing
things like 1) one chuck wagon 2) three dance hall girl dresses 3) two fancy
saddles 4) one fancy lamp with a fringed shade, for indoor / city-slicker / bawdy house scenes.
·
Scenery. Magnificent, right? HDTV
has killed that illusion. In Movie #2 the other day, J. Stewart and company
were riding along a dangerous mountain ridge with all kinds of mountains and
forests and valleys in the distance, except that, um, no they weren't. The
foreground was perfectly clear and in focus; the scenic background looked like
Jackson Pollock's hick cousin Vernton Pollock had blooped and blopped together
some green and blue and white paint to produce Western Background #14.
And so forth.
I am sure, as we say, that for people who like that sort of
thing, that is the sort of thing that they like. I like all kinds of silly /
stupid / sub-par things, especially in the movie category. (Next time you hear
me warbling on about how wonderful "Shack Out On 101" is, give me a
real hard whack on the back of my head.) But, bafflingly, I was born without
the mental toolkit required to make sense of these verkakte Westerns, even
though genetically I should be right in there with my relatives.
Sigh.
Okay. Now: anybody want to see "Shack Out On 101"
one more time?
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