https://www.spaghetti-western.net/api.php?action=feedcontributions&user=DGBell&feedformat=atomThe Spaghetti Western Database - User contributions [en]2024-03-28T21:58:58ZUser contributionsMediaWiki 1.38.2https://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=148339Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-28T17:44:21Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:Brandyposter.jpg|right|Brandy|260px]]Like '''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere|Tequila Joe]]''' (1968 / Dir: ''Vincenzo Dell' Aquila''), ''José Luis Borau''’s '''[[Cavalca e uccidi|Brandy]]''' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by ''Alberto Grimaldi''’s ''Produzioni Europee Associati'' (PEA), '''Brandy''' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to '''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]''' throwing out the rulebook. PEA promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including '''[[Segno del coyote, Il|The Sign of the Coyote]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Mario Caiano''); '''[[Tres hombres buenos|The Implacable Three]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''), featuring ''Paul Piaget'', ''Raf Baldassarre'', ''Robert Hundar'' and ''Fernando Sancho''; and '''[[Rurales de Texas, Los|I due violenti / Texas Ranger]]''' (1964 / Dir: ''Primo Zeglio''), with the all-star line-up of ''George Martin'', ''Frank Braña'', ''Cris Huerta'', ''Luis Induni'', ''Aldo Sambrell'' and ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early PEA productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (NOTE: This might be soon-rectified, however, as '''Brandy''' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from [[Pidax Film catalog|Pidax Film]], in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our release calendar informs us that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration even though no HD release.)<br />
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[[File:Whiskyposter.jpg|Brandy]]<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. '''El Coyote''' author and regular screenwriter ''José Mallorquí'' is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst ''Mario Caiano'' is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. ''José Luis Borau'' would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian ''Matt Blake''’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, '''Furtivos''', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, '''Leo''' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film '''On the Line''', starring ''David Carradine'', ''Scott Wilson'', and ''Victoria Abril'', a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of ''Walter Hill''’s Tex-Mex thriller '''Extreme Prejudice''' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, ''Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi'', directed the 1960 Spanish western, '''Sentencia contra una mujer''', which featured an early genre role for ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
[[File:Rideandkillposter.jpg|right]]<br />
It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of '''Brandy''' and the English-language release of ''Ride and Kill'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
* No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
* The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
* A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
* At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
* An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
* The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
* Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
* Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
* No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
* The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
* Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
[[File:RideAndKill Poster2.jpg|right]]<br />
Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, ''Frank Braña'' is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDb has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor ''Mark Johnson'', playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director ''Barry Levinson''; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is ''Carlos Araud'', who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with ''Paul Naschy'' on a number of cult horror favourites (including '''El espanto surge de la tumba / Horror Rises from the Tomb''' [1973] and the 1974 giallo '''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll'''). ''Riz Ortolani''’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, '''[[Fiorni dell'ira, I|Day of Anger]]''' (1967 / Dir: ''Tonino Valerii'').<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by ''José Canalejas'', in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor ''Alex Nicol''. Whilst Nicol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in '''Savage Guns''' (1961/ Dir: ''Michael Carreras''), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nicol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as '''The Lone Hand''' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated ''George Sherman'', '''Redhead from Wyoming''' (1953 / Dir: ''Lee Sholem'') and alongside ''Jimmy Stewart'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Man from Laramie''' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, '''The Screaming Skull''' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, '''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]''', alongside ''Luis Dávila'' and ''Aldo Sambrell''. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical spaghetti western protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
[[File:Cavalca e uccidi DB.jpg|right|300px]]<br />
Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by ''Robert Hundar'', an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as ''Claudio Undari'', he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in '''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte / The Shadow of Zorro''' (1962) for director ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent'' (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May / '''Winnetou''' adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as '''Old Shatterhand''' and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as '''Tres hombres buenos / Implacable Three''' (1963), and '''El sabor de la venganza / Gunfight at High Noon''' (1964), both for ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb '''Sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas''' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable '''El hijo de Jesse James / Jesse James' Kid''' (1965 / Dir: ''Antonio Del Amo''). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. ''José Luis Galicia'' and ''Jaime Pérez Cubero''), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular ''Enzo G. Castellari''’s '''Il grande racket / The Big Racket''' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of ''Gianni Garko'', ''Piero Lulli'', ''Fernando Sancho'', ''Roberto Camardiel'' – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific ''Antonio Casas'', so good in ''Duccio Tessari''’s '''Ringo''' diptych. Like fellow spaghetti western alumni ''Aldo Sambrell'', the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great ''Renzo Palmer''. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned '''Il Grande Racket'''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by ''George Rigaud''. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
[[File:Gesetzderbravadosaushangf1.jpeg]]<br />
The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by ''Luis Induni''. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (''Natalia Silva''), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing computer generated imagery overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the spaghetti western, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our '''Django'''? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and ''Ricky Nelson'' in '''Rio Bravo''', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. ''“This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,”'' he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for ''Gilbert Roland'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Furies''' (1950), or her violent affection for ''Barry Sullivan'' in ''Sam Fuller''’s '''Forty Guns''' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in '''Il Grande Silenzio''' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore spaghetti western fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la ''Gene Hackman'' in '''French Connection II''' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the spaghetti western was rare; the genre was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious picture quality, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many European westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by ''José Mallorquí''), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147927Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-19T17:28:30Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:Brandyposter.jpg|right|Brandy|260px]]Like '''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere|Tequila Joe]]''' (1968 / Dir: ''Vincenzo Dell' Aquila''), ''José Luis Borau''’s '''[[Cavalca e uccidi|Brandy]]''' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by ''Alberto Grimaldi''’s ''Produzioni Europee Associati'' (PEA), '''Brandy''' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to '''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]''' throwing out the rulebook. PEA promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including '''[[Segno del coyote, Il|The Sign of the Coyote]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Mario Caiano''); '''[[Tres hombres buenos|The Implacable Three]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''), featuring ''Paul Piaget'', ''Raf Baldassarre'', ''Robert Hundar'' and ''Fernando Sancho''; and '''[[Rurales de Texas, Los|I due violenti / Texas Ranger]]''' (1964 / Dir: ''Primo Zeglio''), with the all-star line-up of ''George Martin'', ''Frank Braña'', ''Cris Huerta'', ''Luis Induni'', ''Aldo Sambrell'' and ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early PEA productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (NOTE: This might be soon-rectified, however, as '''Brandy''' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from [[Pidax Film catalog|Pidax Film]], in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our release calendar informs us that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration even though no HD release.)<br />
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[[File:Whiskyposter.jpg|Brandy]]<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. '''El Coyote''' author and regular screenwriter ''José Mallorquí'' is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst ''Mario Caiano'' is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. ''José Luis Borau'' would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian ''Matt Blake''’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, '''Furtivos''', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, '''Leo''' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film '''On the Line''', starring ''David Carradine'', ''Scott Wilson'', and ''Victoria Abril'', a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of ''Walter Hill''’s Tex-Mex thriller '''Extreme Prejudice''' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, ''Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi'', directed the 1960 Spanish western, '''Sentencia contra una mujer''', which featured an early genre role for ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
[[File:Rideandkillposter.jpg|right]]<br />
It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of '''Brandy''' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
* No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
* The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
* A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
* At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
* An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
* The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
* Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
* Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
* No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
* The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
* Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
[[File:RideAndKill Poster2.jpg|right]]<br />
Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, ''Frank Braña'' is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDb has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor ''Mark Johnson'', playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director ''Barry Levinson''; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is ''Carlos Araud'', who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with ''Paul Naschy'' on a number of cult horror favourites (including '''El espanto surge de la tumba / Horror Rises from the Tomb''' [1973] and the 1974 giallo '''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll'''). ''Riz Ortolani''’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, '''[[Fiorni dell'ira, I|Day of Anger]]''' (1967 / Dir: ''Tonino Valerii'').<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by ''José Canalejas'', in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor ''Alex Nicol''. Whilst Nicol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in '''Savage Guns''' (1961/ Dir: ''Michael Carreras''), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nicol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as '''The Lone Hand''' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated ''George Sherman'', '''Redhead from Wyoming''' (1953 / Dir: ''Lee Sholem'') and alongside ''Jimmy Stewart'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Man from Laramie''' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, '''The Screaming Skull''' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, '''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]''', alongside ''Luis Dávila'' and ''Aldo Sambrell''. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical spaghetti western protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
[[File:Cavalca e uccidi DB.jpg|right|300px]]<br />
Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by ''Robert Hundar'', an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as ''Claudio Undari'', he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in '''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte / The Shadow of Zorro''' (1962) for director ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent'' (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May / '''Winnetou''' adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as '''Old Shatterhand''' and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as '''Tres hombres buenos / Implacable Three''' (1963), and '''El sabor de la venganza / Gunfight at High Noon''' (1964), both for ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb '''Sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas''' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable '''El hijo de Jesse James / Jesse James' Kid''' (1965 / Dir: ''Antonio Del Amo''). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. ''José Luis Galicia'' and ''Jaime Pérez Cubero''), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular ''Enzo G. Castellari''’s '''Il grande racket / The Big Racket''' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of ''Gianni Garko'', ''Piero Lulli'', ''Fernando Sancho'', ''Roberto Camardiel'' – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific ''Antonio Casas'', so good in ''Duccio Tessari''’s '''Ringo''' diptych. Like fellow spaghetti western alumni ''Aldo Sambrell'', the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great ''Renzo Palmer''. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned '''Il Grande Racket'''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by ''George Rigaud''. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
[[File:Gesetzderbravadosaushangf1.jpeg]]<br />
The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by ''Luis Induni''. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (''Natalia Silva''), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing computer generated imagery overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the spaghetti western, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our '''Django'''? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and ''Ricky Nelson'' in '''Rio Bravo''', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. ''“This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,”'' he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for ''Gilbert Roland'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Furies''' (1950), or her violent affection for ''Barry Sullivan'' in ''Sam Fuller''’s '''Forty Guns''' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in '''Il Grande Silenzio''' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore spaghetti western fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la ''Gene Hackman'' in '''French Connection II''' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the spaghetti western was rare; the genre was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious picture quality, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many European westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by ''José Mallorquí''), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147926Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-19T17:23:16Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:Brandyposter.jpg|right|Brandy|260px]]Like '''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere|Tequila Joe]]''' (1968 / Dir: ''Vincenzo Dell' Aquila''), ''José Luis Borau''’s '''[[Cavalca e uccidi|Brandy]]''' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by ''Alberto Grimaldi''’s ''Produzioni Europee Associati'' (PEA), '''Brandy''' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to '''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]''' throwing out the rulebook. PEA promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including '''[[Segno del coyote, Il|The Sign of the Coyote]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Mario Caiano''); '''[[Tres hombres buenos|The Implacable Three]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''), featuring ''Paul Piaget'', ''Raf Baldassarre'', ''Robert Hundar'' and ''Fernando Sancho''; and '''[[Rurales de Texas, Los|I due violenti / Texas Ranger]]''' (1964 / Dir: ''Primo Zeglio''), with the all-star line-up of ''George Martin'', ''Frank Braña'', ''Cris Huerta'', ''Luis Induni'', ''Aldo Sambrell'' and ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early PEA productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. This might be soon-rectified, however, as '''Brandy''' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from [[Pidax Film catalog|Pidax Film]], in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. (Our release calendar informs us that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration even though no HD release)<br />
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[[File:Whiskyposter.jpg|Brandy]]<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. '''El Coyote''' author and regular screenwriter ''José Mallorquí'' is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst ''Mario Caiano'' is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. ''José Luis Borau'' would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian ''Matt Blake''’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, '''Furtivos''', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, '''Leo''' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film '''On the Line''', starring ''David Carradine'', ''Scott Wilson'', and ''Victoria Abril'', a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of ''Walter Hill''’s Tex-Mex thriller '''Extreme Prejudice''' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, ''Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi'', directed the 1960 Spanish western, '''Sentencia contra una mujer''', which featured an early genre role for ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
[[File:Rideandkillposter.jpg|right]]<br />
It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of '''Brandy''' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
* No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
* The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
* A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
* At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
* An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
* The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
* Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
* Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
* No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
* The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
* Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
[[File:RideAndKill Poster2.jpg|right]]<br />
Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, ''Frank Braña'' is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDb has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor ''Mark Johnson'', playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director ''Barry Levinson''; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is ''Carlos Araud'', who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with ''Paul Naschy'' on a number of cult horror favourites (including '''El espanto surge de la tumba / Horror Rises from the Tomb''' [1973] and the 1974 giallo '''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll'''). ''Riz Ortolani''’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, '''[[Fiorni dell'ira, I|Day of Anger]]''' (1967 / Dir: ''Tonino Valerii'').<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by ''José Canalejas'', in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor ''Alex Nicol''. Whilst Nicol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in '''Savage Guns''' (1961/ Dir: ''Michael Carreras''), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nicol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as '''The Lone Hand''' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated ''George Sherman'', '''Redhead from Wyoming''' (1953 / Dir: ''Lee Sholem'') and alongside ''Jimmy Stewart'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Man from Laramie''' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, '''The Screaming Skull''' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, '''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]''', alongside ''Luis Dávila'' and ''Aldo Sambrell''. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical spaghetti western protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
[[File:Cavalca e uccidi DB.jpg|right|300px]]<br />
Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by ''Robert Hundar'', an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as ''Claudio Undari'', he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in '''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte / The Shadow of Zorro''' (1962) for director ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent'' (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May / '''Winnetou''' adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as '''Old Shatterhand''' and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as '''Tres hombres buenos / Implacable Three''' (1963), and '''El sabor de la venganza / Gunfight at High Noon''' (1964), both for ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb '''Sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas''' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable '''El hijo de Jesse James / Jesse James' Kid''' (1965 / Dir: ''Antonio Del Amo''). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. ''José Luis Galicia'' and ''Jaime Pérez Cubero''), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular ''Enzo G. Castellari''’s '''Il grande racket / The Big Racket''' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of ''Gianni Garko'', ''Piero Lulli'', ''Fernando Sancho'', ''Roberto Camardiel'' – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific ''Antonio Casas'', so good in ''Duccio Tessari''’s '''Ringo''' diptych. Like fellow spaghetti western alumni ''Aldo Sambrell'', the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great ''Renzo Palmer''. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned '''Il Grande Racket'''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by ''George Rigaud''. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
[[File:Gesetzderbravadosaushangf1.jpeg]]<br />
The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by ''Luis Induni''. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (''Natalia Silva''), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing computer generated imagery overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the spaghetti western, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our '''Django'''? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and ''Ricky Nelson'' in '''Rio Bravo''', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. ''“This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,”'' he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for ''Gilbert Roland'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Furies''' (1950), or her violent affection for ''Barry Sullivan'' in ''Sam Fuller''’s '''Forty Guns''' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in '''Il Grande Silenzio''' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore spaghetti western fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la ''Gene Hackman'' in '''French Connection II''' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the spaghetti western was rare; the genre was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious picture quality, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many European westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by ''José Mallorquí''), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147925Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-19T17:21:46Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:Brandyposter.jpg|right|Brandy|260px]]Like '''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere|Tequila Joe]]''' (1968 / Dir: ''Vincenzo Dell' Aquila''), ''José Luis Borau''’s '''[[Cavalca e uccidi|Brandy]]''' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by ''Alberto Grimaldi''’s ''Produzioni Europee Associati'' (PEA), '''Brandy''' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to '''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]''' throwing out the rulebook. PEA promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including '''[[Segno del coyote, Il|The Sign of the Coyote]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Mario Caiano''); '''[[Tres hombres buenos|The Implacable Three]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''), featuring ''Paul Piaget'', ''Raf Baldassarre'', ''Robert Hundar'' and ''Fernando Sancho''; and '''[[Rurales de Texas, Los|I due violenti / Texas Ranger]]''' (1964 / Dir: ''Primo Zeglio''), with the all-star line-up of ''George Martin'', ''Frank Braña'', ''Cris Huerta'', ''Luis Induni'', ''Aldo Sambrell'' and ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early PEA productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. This might be soon-rectified, however, as '''Brandy''' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from [[Pidax Film catalog|Pidax Film]], in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. (Our release calendar informs us that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration even though no HD release)<br />
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[[File:Whiskyposter.jpg|Brandy]]<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. '''El Coyote''' author and regular screenwriter ''José Mallorquí'' is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst ''Mario Caiano'' is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. ''José Luis Borau'' would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian ''Matt Blake''’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, '''Furtivos''', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, '''Leo''' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film '''On the Line''', starring ''David Carradine'', ''Scott Wilson'', and ''Victoria Abril'', a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of ''Walter Hill''’s Tex-Mex thriller '''Extreme Prejudice''' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, ''Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi'', directed the 1960 Spanish western, '''Sentencia contra una mujer''', which featured an early genre role for ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
[[File:Rideandkillposter.jpg|right]]<br />
It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of '''Brandy''' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
* No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
* The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
* A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
* At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
* An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
* The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
* Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
* Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
* No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
* The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
* Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
[[File:RideAndKill Poster2.jpg|right]]<br />
Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, ''Frank Braña'' is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDb has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor ''Mark Johnson'', playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director ''Barry Levinson''; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is ''Carlos Araud'', who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with ''Paul Naschy'' on a number of cult horror favourites (including '''El espanto surge de la tumba / Horror Rises from the Tomb''' [1973] and the 1974 giallo '''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll'''). ''Riz Ortolani''’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, '''[[Fiorni dell'ira, I|Day of Anger]]''' (1967 / Dir: ''Tonino Valerii'').<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by ''José Canalejas'', in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor ''Alex Nichol''. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in '''Savage Guns''' (1961/ Dir: ''Michael Carreras''), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as '''The Lone Hand''' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated ''George Sherman'', '''Redhead from Wyoming''' (1953 / Dir: ''Lee Sholem'') and alongside ''Jimmy Stewart'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Man from Laramie''' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, '''The Screaming Skull''' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, '''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]''', alongside ''Luis Dávila'' and ''Aldo Sambrell''. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical spaghetti western protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
[[File:Cavalca e uccidi DB.jpg|right|300px]]<br />
Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by ''Robert Hundar'', an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as ''Claudio Undari'', he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in '''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte / The Shadow of Zorro''' (1962) for director ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent'' (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May / '''Winnetou''' adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as '''Old Shatterhand''' and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as '''Tres hombres buenos / Implacable Three''' (1963), and '''El sabor de la venganza / Gunfight at High Noon''' (1964), both for ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb '''Sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas''' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable '''El hijo de Jesse James / Jesse James' Kid''' (1965 / Dir: ''Antonio Del Amo''). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. ''José Luis Galicia'' and ''Jaime Pérez Cubero''), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular ''Enzo G. Castellari''’s '''Il grande racket / The Big Racket''' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of ''Gianni Garko'', ''Piero Lulli'', ''Fernando Sancho'', ''Roberto Camardiel'' – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific ''Antonio Casas'', so good in ''Duccio Tessari''’s '''Ringo''' diptych. Like fellow spaghetti western alumni ''Aldo Sambrell'', the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great ''Renzo Palmer''. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned '''Il Grande Racket'''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by ''George Rigaud''. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
[[File:Gesetzderbravadosaushangf1.jpeg]]<br />
The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by ''Luis Induni''. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (''Natalia Silva''), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing computer generated imagery overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the spaghetti western, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our '''Django'''? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and ''Ricky Nelson'' in '''Rio Bravo''', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. ''“This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,”'' he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for ''Gilbert Roland'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Furies''' (1950), or her violent affection for ''Barry Sullivan'' in ''Sam Fuller''’s '''Forty Guns''' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in '''Il Grande Silenzio''' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore spaghetti western fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la ''Gene Hackman'' in '''French Connection II''' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the spaghetti western was rare; the genre was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious picture quality, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many European westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by ''José Mallorquí''), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147913Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-17T14:09:35Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:Brandyposter.jpg|right|Brandy|260px]]Like '''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere|Tequila Joe]]''' (1968 / Dir: ''Vincenzo Dell' Aquila''), ''José Luis Borau''’s '''[[Cavalca e uccidi|Brandy]]''' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by ''Alberto Grimaldi''’s ''Produzioni Europee Associati'' (PEA), '''Brandy''' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to '''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]''' throwing out the rulebook. PEA promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including '''[[Segno del coyote, Il|The Sign of the Coyote]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Mario Caiano''); '''[[Tres hombres buenos|The Implacable Three]]''' (1963 / Dir: ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''), featuring ''Paul Piaget'', ''Raf Baldassarre'', ''Robert Hundar'' and ''Fernando Sancho''; and '''[[Rurales de Texas, Los|I due violenti / Texas Ranger]]''' (1964 / Dir: ''Primo Zeglio''), with the all-star line-up of ''George Martin'', ''Frank Braña'', ''Cris Huerta'', ''Luis Induni'', ''Aldo Sambrell'' and ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early PEA productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. This might be soon-rectified, however, as '''Brandy''' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from [[Pidax Film catalog|Pidax Film]], in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. (Our release calendar informs us that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration even though no HD release)<br />
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[[File:Whiskyposter.jpg|Brandy]]<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. '''El Coyote''' author and regular screenwriter ''José Mallorquí'' is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst ''Mario Caiano'' is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. ''José Luis Borau'' would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian ''Matt Blake''’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, '''Furtivos''', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, '''Leo''' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film '''On the Line''', starring ''David Carradine'', ''Scott Wilson'', and ''Victoria Abril'', a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of ''Walter Hill''’s Tex-Mex thriller '''Extreme Prejudice''' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, ''Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi'', directed the 1960 Spanish western, '''Sentencia contra una mujer''', which featured an early genre role for ''Antonio Molino Rojo''. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
[[File:Rideandkillposter.jpg|right]]<br />
It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of '''Brandy''' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
* No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
* The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
* A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
* At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
* An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
* The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
* Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
* Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
* No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
* The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
* Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
[[File:RideAndKill Poster2.jpg|right]]<br />
Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, ''Frank Braña'' is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDb has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor ''Mark Johnson'', playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director ''Barry Levinson''; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is ''Carlos Araud'', who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with ''Paul Naschy'' on a number of cult horror favourites (including '''El espanto surge de la tumba / Horror Rises from the Tomb''' [1973] and the 1974 giallo '''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll'''). ''Riz Ortolani''’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, '''[[Fiorni dell'ira, I|Day of Anger]]''' (1967 / Dir: ''Tonino Valerii'').<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by ''José Canalejas'', in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor ''Alex Nichol''. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in '''Savage Guns''' (1961/ Dir: ''Michael Carreras''), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as '''The Lone Hand''' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated ''George Sherman'', '''Redhead from Wyoming''' (1953 / Dir: ''Lee Sholem'') and alongside ''Jimmy Stewart'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Man from Laramie''' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, '''The Screaming Skull''' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, '''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]''', alongside ''Luis Dávila'' and ''Aldo Sambrell''. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical spaghetti western protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
[[File:Cavalca e uccidi DB.jpg|right|300px]]<br />
Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by ''Robert Hundar'', an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as ''Claudio Undari'', he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in '''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte / The Shadow of Zorro''' (1962) for director ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent'' (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May / '''Winnetou''' adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as '''Old Shatterhand''' and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as '''Tres hombres buenos / Implacable Three''' (1963), and '''El sabor de la venganza / Gunfight at High Noon''' (1964), both for ''Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent''. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb '''Sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas''' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable '''El hijo de Jesse James / Jesse James' Kid''' (1965 / Dir: ''Antonio Del Amo''). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. ''José Luis Galicia'' and ''Jaime Pérez Cubero''), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular ''Enzo G. Castellari''’s '''Il grande racket / The Big Racket''' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of ''Gianni Garko'', ''Piero Lulli'', ''Fernando Sancho'', ''Roberto Camardiel'' – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific ''Antonio Casas'', so good in ''Duccio Tessari''’s '''Ringo''' diptych. Like fellow spaghetti western alumni ''Aldo Sambrell'', the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great ''Renzo Palmer''. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned '''Il Grande Racket'''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by ''George Rigaud''. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
[[File:Gesetzderbravadosaushangf1.jpeg]]<br />
The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by ''Luis Induni''. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (''Natalia Silva''), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing computer generated imagery overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the spaghetti western, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our '''Django'''? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and ''Ricky Nelson'' in '''Rio Bravo''', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. ''“This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,”'' he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for ''Gilbert Roland'' in ''Anthony Mann''’s '''The Furies''' (1950), or her violent affection for ''Barry Sullivan'' in ''Sam Fuller''’s '''Forty Guns''' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in '''Il Grande Silenzio''' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore spaghetti western fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la ''Gene Hackman'' in '''French Connection II''' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the spaghetti western was rare; the genre was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious picture quality, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by ''José Mallorquí''), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147886Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:22:21Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere]]/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ [[Cavalca e uccidi]]'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''[[Tres hombres buenos]]/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ [[Day of Anger]]'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. ''“This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,”'' he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147885Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:10:56Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere]]/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ [[Cavalca e uccidi]]'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''[[Tres hombres buenos]]/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ [[Day of Anger]]'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147884Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:10:30Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere]]/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ [[Cavalca e uccidi]]'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''[[Il segno del coyote]]/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''[[Tres hombres buenos]]/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ [[Day of Anger]]'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147883Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:05:56Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere]]/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ [[Cavalca e uccidi]]'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''[[Il segno del coyote]]/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''[[Tres hombres buenos]]/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''[[I due violenti]]/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ [[Day of Anger]]'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147882Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:04:31Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere]]/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ [[Cavalca e uccidi]]'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''[[Per un pugno di dollari]]'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''[[Il segno del coyote]]/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''[[Tres hombres buenos]]/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''[[I due violenti]]/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''[[Relevo para un pistolero]]'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147881Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:02:33Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''[[E venne il tempo di uccidere]]/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ Cavalca e uccidi'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147880Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T22:01:33Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/ Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy/ Cavalca e uccidi'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147879Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:59:42Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; ''Brandy'', however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147878Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:57:48Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing ''Brandy'' has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; Brandy, however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147877Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:55:40Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, ''“All your money will be safe”''. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing Brandy has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; Brandy, however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147876Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:53:53Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow ''Brandy'' with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, “All your money will be safe”. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing Brandy has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; Brandy, however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147875Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:51:21Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
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- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
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- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
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- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
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- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow Brandy with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, “All your money will be safe”. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing Brandy has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; Brandy, however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147874Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:50:43Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
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- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee)<br />
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- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
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- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout<br />
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- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
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- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow Brandy with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, “All your money will be safe”. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing Brandy has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; Brandy, however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Neat_Shot:_Jos%C3%A9_Luis_Borau%E2%80%99s_Brandy&diff=147873Neat Shot: José Luis Borau’s Brandy2023-06-16T21:49:19Z<p>DGBell: Created page with "Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more in..."</p>
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<div>Like ''E venne il tempo di uccidere/Tequila Joe'' (1968/Dir: Vincenzo Dell' Aquila), José Luis Borau’s ''Brandy'' takes its eponymous lush and grants him title status. In the case of the latter, this is a good thing, as the film itself seems unsure – confused, even – as to who, exactly, the film’s de facto hero is. In France, the film was released as ''Pour un whisky de plus'', which – tellingly – implies the importance of a general distilled alcohol more integral to Borau’s film than the so-called protagonist. The English language release went by the more apt ''Ride and Kill'', a much more genre-friendly (albeit generic) title. Produced by Alberto Grimaldi’s Produzioni Europee Associati, ''Brandy'' is an Italian/Spanish co-production which, happily, feels far more akin to that early clutch of fascinating Spanish westerns lensed prior to ''Per un pugno di dollari'' throwing out the rulebook. P.E.A. promised a slightly higher calibre of production – at least in terms of budget and distribution – when compared to the average Euro-oater, and by the early sixties had co-produced a number of significant European westerns, including ''Il segno del coyote/ Sign of the Coyote'' (1963/Dir: Mario Caiano); ''Tres hombres buenos/ The Implacable Three'' (1963/Dir: Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent), featuring Paul Piaget, Raf Baldassarre, Robert Hundar and Fernando Sancho; and ''I due violenti/ Texas Ranger'' (1964/Dir: Primo Zeglio), with the all-star line-up of George Martin, Frank Braña, Cris Huerta, Luis Induni, Aldo Sambrell and Antonio Molino Rojo. Each of those films are now recognized, to varying degrees, as being important bricks in the foundation of the European western. ''Brandy'' might be the least known of those early P.E.A. productions, however; as of writing, Borau’s film is yet to receive a legitimate physical media release or ignite anything approximating a renewed fervour or positive reappraisal within the fan community. That’s a shame, as whilst the film is no lost classic, it does enough right to warrant certain rediscovery. (This might be soon-rectified, however, as ''Brandy'' is now due to be released on DVD in Germany from Pidax Film, in July 2023, under the title ''Gesetz der Bravados''. Our own SWDB informs us, via the release calendar, that the film will be in widescreen, with German, Italian and English audio options, and have a run time of some 85 minutes – a cause for fan celebration.)<br />
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There remains, however, the small matter of ownership with regard to the film’s actual director. ''El Coyote'' author and regular screenwriter José Mallorquí is often cited as director, but this seems unlikely, whilst Mario Caiano is often credited as co-director, but I see no overt evidence of Caiano’s stamp on the film, either. José Luis Borau would appear to be the true director of the film, then (see film historian Matt Blake’s excellent book ''Spanish Cult Cinema, Volume 1: 1960 – 1964'' for an extended discussion on said subject). The esteemed Borau would go on to enjoy a long and acclaimed career within the international film industry: his 1975 film, ''Furtivos'', would win best film at the San Sebastián International Film Festival, and Borau himself would win Best Director award at the 2001 Goya awards for his celebrated drama, ''Leo'' (2000). In-between, Borau also directed the 1983 American film ''On the Line'', starring David Carradine, Scott Wilson, and Victoria Abril, a decent-if-unfocused drama which plays out like a more grounded version of Walter Hill’s Tex-Mex thriller ''Extreme Prejudice'' (1987). Incidentally, one of Borau’s credited producers on that film, Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, directed the 1960 Spanish western, ''Sentencia contra una mujer'', which featured an early genre role for Antonio Molino Rojo. All roads, it would seem, lead back to the Euro-western.<br />
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It's also worth noting that the Spanish version of ''Brandy'' and the English-language release of ''Kill and Ride'' are slightly different films. The former has a runtime of 82 minutes, whereas the latter clocks in at a slightly longer 88 minutes. However, just to muddy matters further, the shorter Spanish version (''Brandy'') is not simply cut or edited down, but contains additional scenes not present in the international version. Likewise, ''Ride and Kill'' has entire sequences missing from the original version. It is, as they say, complicated. What follows is a short list of differences between the two films. (Note that this article is based on two very different print sources: The Spanish cut of ''Brandy'' is from a bootleg DVD-R of middling picture quality, a composite of English dub and un-subtitled original Spanish language tracks. This version, however, retains its original Techniscope 2:35:1 widescreen format. The international cut of ''Ride and Kill'' is an extremely compromised, heavily cropped VHS rip currently found on Youtube, English dub with no Spanish audio.)<br />
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'''Brandy (82 Minutes)'''<br />
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- No prologue. Animated title sequence in Spanish<br />
- The Spanish version includes a number of detailed intertitles throughout the film, white font against red background, which seemingly act as chapter marks or narrative filler. The first of these seems to date the film as taking place in 1880 (although the extremely murky PQ makes it difficult to guarantee) <br />
- A slight extension of the scene prior to Underhill, the banker, unveiling his new safe (Spanish audio only)<br />
- At around the 50min mark, there is an entirely new scene inserted in which Stauffer, the honest judge of Tombstone, is visited by his wife, who appears to plead with her husband to continue his fight against the corruption in town. By this point in the film, the Judge is clearly despondent and losing faith in the justice system he works so tirelessly to uphold. This is a substantial sequence, almost three minutes in length, beautifully shot, with the focus on the wife throughout <br />
- An extended sequence during/after the sheriff’s funeral, in which the honest townsfolk appear to collude and tentatively plan their burgeoning resistance. Whilst the majority remain somewhat reluctant, the young would-be deputy, Chico, seems most intent on taking a stand<br />
- The fight scene between Donnelly and Moody’s henchmen – a major set-piece and overall standout sequence of the film, see below – is missing, cut from this version in its entirety(!) <br />
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'''Ride and Kill (88 Minutes)'''<br />
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- Credits in English over live action of bandits riding. Identical music score from Ortolani, however<br />
- Short prologue in which Moody’s bandits appear to attack and kill a group of farmers/landowners. There is some good stunt work on show here, including an impressive horse fall<br />
- No intertitles or chapter markers<br />
- The aforementioned additional scenes from Brandy are missing here<br />
- Most significantly, the sheriff’s funeral cuts straight to the saloon, where Donnelly fights off multiple attackers in an extended, highly impressive brawl (detailed later in this article). This is an exceptional action scene, allowing long-time genre staple Louis Induni a rare moment in the spotlight, and the actor proves himself to be a terrific physical presence <br />
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Whilst it’s always edifying to see a film in varying versions (if available), I have no preference as to which is the superior cut. It’s a travesty that ''Brandy'' loses the saloon fight sequence, but it gains that wonderful scene in which the judge is spoken to by his wife by way of compensation. Both work remarkably well. With that in mind, what of Borau’s film itself? (Note that the bulk of the following review will be based around the international version, ''Kill and Ride'', but that I will refer to the film as ''Brandy'', and continue to compare and contrast the two versions where appropriate.)<br />
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Borau’s film begins in standard fashion. The opening credits are rushed, perfunctory, no character (although there is an on-screen credit for microphone technician[!], which might be a first). In fact, the difference in on-screen credits is interesting. In the Spanish version, Frank Braña is listed amongst the cast, although I ashamedly failed to notice him on multiple viewings (the SWDB has him listed as Wagon Driver). Also, the actor Mark Johnson, playing the young would-be deputy, Chico, receives a special ‘Introducing’ credit, likely owing to the fact that Johnson was an American. Curiously, Johnson would go on to become an Oscar-winning Hollywood film producer and long-time collaborator of award-winning director Barry Levinson; it would be interesting to know how the younger Johnson found his way onto the Elios set in 1963, shooting a low-budget Euro-western. Also of note and credited as assistant director is Carlos Araud, who would eventually become a genre director in his own right, most notably working with Paul Naschy on a number of cult horror favourites (including ''El espanto surge de la tumba/ Horror Rises from the Tomb'' [1973] and the 1974 giallo ''Los ojos azules de la muñeca rota/ Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll''). Riz Ortolani’s score is mid-tier, fine if unremarkable, with none of the flare, flavour or daring he would bring to the form with his later work on, say, ''i Giorni dell'ira/ Day of Anger'' (1967/Dir: Tonino Valerii).<br />
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The film opens proper in the Arizona town of Tombstone, where a guitar is gently strummed by Chirilo (played by José Canalejas, in a larger part than normal). Brandy, the town drunk, is tossed out of the saloon. Brandy is played by the American actor Alex Nichol. Whilst Nichol’s name might not be instantly familiar, he was with the Spaghetti Western from its genesis, more or less, having featured in ''Savage Guns'' (1961/ Dir: Michael Carreras), the first Euro-western to make proper use of our beloved Almeria landscape. Prior to that, Nichol had earned his western credentials in such American classics as ''The Lone Hand'' (1953), directed by the perennially underrated George Sherman, ''Redhead from Wyoming'' (1953/Dir: Lee Sholem) and alongside Jimmy Stewart in Anthony Mann’s ''The Man from Laramie'' (1955). Nicol turned director in the late 1950s, helming the excellent independent horror film, ''The Screaming Skull'' (1958), before temporarily relocating to Europe at the dawn of the 1960s. He would follow his turn in Brandy by headlining the 1964 Spanish western, ''Relevo para un pistolero'', alongside Luis Dávila and Aldo Sambrell. Nicol is solid as the titular character in ''Brandy'', about as far away from the typical SW protagonist as one can possibly get.<br />
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Moody arrives at the saloon, clad in black, and offering Brandy a drink. Moody is played by Robert Hundar, an actor absolutely integral to the history of the European western. Although the genre would eventually see him relegated to villainous lieutenants in mostly supporting roles, Hundar was front-and-centre as performer when it came to the formalization of the Spaghetti Western, often as co-lead. Born in Castelvetrano as Claudio Undari, he moved to Madrid early on in his career, appearing in ''Cabalgando hacia la Muerte/ The Shadow of Zorro'' (1962) for director Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent (the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration) and paving the way for a ridiculously productive run in similar genre fare. (Much has been written about the influence of the early German Karl May/Winnetou adaptations on the European western, but the Spanish antecedents are less referenced and yet of equal importance in their imprint. The ''Zorro'' and ''El Coyote'' film adaptations which fed directly into the burgeoning Spanish – ergo, European – western craze were just as vital as Old Shatterhand and co. in their influence.) Hundar would go on to dominate such early entries as ''Tres hombres buenos/ Implacable Three'' (1963), and ''El sabor de la venganza/ Gunfight at High Noon'' (1964), both for Joaquín Luis Romero Marchent. Hundar would follow Brandy with the superb ''sette del Texas/ Seven from Texas'' (1964), again for Marchent, and the ultra-rare but very enjoyable ''El hijo de Jesse James/ Jesse James' Kid'' (1965/Dir: Antonio Del Amo). He’s terrific in ''Brandy'', a real bastardo, if a tad under-utilized (the film is crammed with many memorable villains – enough for two films).<br />
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Production design, credited to Galicia and Cubero (aka. José Luis Galicia and Jaime Pérez Cubero), is rock solid, very convincing. Tombstone feels like a real, hard-scrabble community, if admittedly a tad underpopulated. Chirilo puts down his guitar and enters the local gun shop, where the owner, Hopkins, has been threatened by local thugs for protection money. This is an odd, appealing subplot for a western, far more recognizable from various poliziotteschi films, in particular Enzo G. Castellari’s ''Il grande racket/The Big Racket'' (1976). The shop owner laments that if everybody took a stand like him, the town could overcome the criminal element. A strong-willed, pro-active merchant in a spaghetti western was a rare thing, although one suspects that such admirable-yet-foolhardy belligerence might cost him dearly. Sure enough, having distracted Hopkins, Chirilo then blows-up the entire store using a stick of dynamite procured from Moody. This is wonderfully captured on film, with Canalejas running from the building and rounding the saloon in real time, just as the place explodes behind him, in-camera, with no apparent cuts or fakery. In an age of ridiculously unconvincing CGI explosions, the old-school, practical, in-camera art of destruction continues to grow ever-more impressive. Amidst a downpour of debris and a swathe of black smoke, Moody vacuously laments the death of Hopkins, blaming the stockpile of explosives within the establishment. Hundar belongs to that small coterie of SW regulars – the likes of Gianni Garko, Piero Lulli, Fernando Sancho, Roberto Camardiel – who could convey a moral dexterity and play both ways, hero and villain. Just like the viewer, the sheriff smells foul play, and proclaims the act to be one of murder. Sheriff Clymer is played by the terrific Antonio Casas, so good in Duccio Tessari’s ''Ringo'' diptych. Like fellow SW alumni Aldo Sambrell, the Galicia-born Casas was a former professional football player-turned-actor, having played for Atlético Madrid in his younger years. He’s excellent here, playing the just and honourable lawman of Tombstone, although the viewer might well wonder why Clymer has no sworn deputies.<br />
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Hopkins’ charred body is lifted from the demolished site, tended to by the town pastor, who, along with the lawman, laments the infestation of crime in their fair city, suggesting this act of violence is a known quantity, the town in the grip of something rotten. Pastor Andrews is played by the great Renzo Palmer. Palmer was never a presence in the European westerns, but the prolific actor went on to appear regularly in many poliziotteschi films, including the aforementioned ''Il Grande Racket''. It’s nice to see Palmer out west. Brandy, drunk and unfocused, vouches for Moody, through one gets the feeling this is more out of plain, drunken naivety than any form of overt collusion. The sheriff threatens Moody further, but it’s clear that Moody is – like many crooks, on film as in life – protected from on-high by unscrupulous men of dubious power. It’s a great opening, establishing real menace and threat whilst highlighting the plight of the townsfolk. The man at the top in ''Brandy'' is David ‘Beau’ Pritchard, your typical unscrupulous type played here by George Rigaud. The Argentinian Rigaud was a mainstay in French and Italian cinema, racking up almost 200 film credits in a long and distinguished career, and is most recognizable today to genre film fans for his many ''gialli'' appearances. He makes for a solid, eminently hissable bastard (who, hilariously, hates to be called ‘Beau’). With Hundar, Casas, Palmer, and Rigaud, Borau’s film has a stacked cast of world-class talent amongst its ensemble players.<br />
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The film then deviates and picks up on a secondary narrative thread: that of Steve Donnelly being released from prison. Donnelly is played by Luis Induni. Is Donnelly our hero? He seems to be on the usual hero’s journey, looking for redemption and/or peace. Donnelly is taken back into town by a female landowner, Alex McCormack (Natalia Silva), who hopes that he hasn’t “Come back for revenge for what they did to him”. Does the film have the bottle to forgo the hip, younger, more handsome protagonist model for this – the moustachioed, middle-aged character actor? Has Induni finally been promoted to bona-fide leading man? We’ll see. The sozzled lush Brandy is especially pleased to see Donnelly back in town, although not everyone is that enthused. From the moment Donnelly sets foot back in the local saloon, Moody is nervous and jittery. The two men circle each other like stags, and we learn that Donnelly has just been paroled for a crime not committed, and that his new boss, Alex, is the biggest homesteader in the valley, and one of the last of the ranchers to capitulate to Pritchard and Moody’s tyranny. The inevitable violence is avoided at this early juncture, the film side-stepping the clichéd bar fight, at least for now.<br />
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''‘I bet you’ve been drinking,’'' Donnelly says to Brandy, in a moment of brilliant psychological analysis. In what we must assume to be Ye Olde West equivalent of walking a straight line whilst touching your nose, Brandy climbs into the saddle and rides as if to proves his sobriety. (The horse bucks and kicks violently, always remaining in-shot, and it appears to be Alex Nichol himself doing all the riding, no stunt person or cutaways.)<br />
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The film continues to draw lines, dividing the town into two clear camps. Brandy, Donnelly and the Sheriff align themselves, although the sheriff fears he may-well be next in line for an ‘accidental’ death. In a superfluous but brief and welcome aside, we get to see the sheriff doing a bit of admin work, explaining his unlikely filing system to a curious, would-be-deputy teen, Chico (Johnson). Curiously, one of the wanted posters is for Tombstone’s own Pastor Andrews; a tantalizing prospect that is – oddly – never referred to again. Meanwhile, Eustice Underhill, the town’s pompous banker, reveals to the town a brand-new, state of the art safe, in which, he promises, “All your money will be safe”. The citizens of Tombstone look on, broke and penniless, their blank expressions hilariously dismissive of this fat cat and his new toy. Underhill invites everybody back to the saloon, and offers the sheriff a drink, but the honest lawman refuses. Brandy, however, has no such scruples, and is soon licking excess booze off his hand like some kind of animal. At the twenty-minute mark, the film offers no real hint as to its hero. The sheriff and Donnelly are proving to be two hugely likable characters – played by two hugely likeable actors – but both seem doomed by way of virtue and morality. Brandy, however, is an enigma, albeit not an especially interesting one; irritating, blind to the corruption around him and bordering on a clownish, woefully unappealing countenance.<br />
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Underhill is so sure of his impenetrable new safe that he announces his plan to leave his bank open all night, should anyone fancy a crack at it. At this juncture, the film’s narrative takes a sharp left turn, when Brandy fools Underhill into opening the safe and then summarily robs him at gunpoint. (Hilariously, Brandy then forces the banker to change a bill into coins in order to buy a cigar from him.) Hailed a local hero for having opened the safe via intellect and guile, Underhill attempts to have Brandy arrested for robbery. To be fair to Brandy, he selflessly pours the money back into the local economy by blowing it all at the saloon. There follows a horrendous song-and-dance sequence which is mercifully cut short when the saloon boss catches his barmaid, Eva, stealing from the till. Pleading poverty (she owes the taxman), Brandy consoles her in an insipid sequence stuffed with inconsequential dialogue (during which Brandy reveals his real name to be Robert, killing what little mystique remained). Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Chirilo threatens a farmer for yet more protection money, but the proletariat refuses to pay, prompting further carnage. As Moody and his riders converge on his land, the farmer and his men fend them off in a routinely competent gunfight before the place is finally burned down. Again, in an age of cheap, unconvincing CGI overstatement, there’s something viscerally hypnotic about a set burning in real time.<br />
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The town fathers meet and condemn the sheriff, a paragon of virtue in a town gone to shit, and obvious obstacle with regard to their spreading tentacles of corruption. They talk of historical deceits, intimating that evil is akin to any skill – requiring only practice and commitment. Even in the politically biased world of the SW, there is a dirty specificity at play here, and it marks this lot as a very special kind of scum. They even refer to their criminality as an operation – a legitimate coalition of corrupt businessmen, a transparent facsimile of the mafia. To them law & order isn’t a moral imperative, rather a façade on which to supress and – more importantly – profit. Hell, maybe the privatization of police began here, in Tombstone. The viewer demands justice, hopefully via Pritchard and his co-conspirators’ deaths, but the film is still without a hero figure, save a charmless booze hound, a neutered ex-con and a decent – albeit doomed – lawman. Where is our Stranger? Our Django? Our Ringo? Over halfway in, and the film offers nothing by way of an avenging rider. The townsfolk are good, decent people but they are also portrayed as simpering idiots, oblivious to the fate befalling them. At one point, the sheriff picks up a guitar and begins to sing, the scene clearly a homage to Wayne, Martin, Brennan and Ricky Nelson in ''Rio Bravo'', but whereas the characters in Hawks’ classic came across as cool, patient and laconic, this lot merely register as naïve fools. Seconds later and the sheriff is dead. The judge looks to elect a replacement, suggesting that he, too, is on the level and untainted by corruption. “This town needs a sheriff with guts who can outdraw anyone,” he tells his constituency.<br />
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''So does the film.''<br />
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There is more interminable romance between Brandy and Eva, which I’m prone to skip over. The Italian westerns never quite nailed the whole love thing. There’s nothing wrong with prairie romance, but it must be done right, as an extension of the drama/action, as opposed to secondary plot point that slows down all momentum. Think of Barbara Stanwyck’s torrid passion for Gilbert Roland in Anthony Mann’s ''The Furies'' (1950), or her violent affection for Barry Sullivan in Sam Fuller’s ''Forty Guns'' (1957) – both relationship arcs as incendiary and exciting as any action beat in either film. Of course, Silence’s gloomy love for Pauline in ''il Grande Silenzio'' (1967) is achingly rendered, but for the most part, the Euro-westerns were unsure what to do with love, and for the most part played it safe. Leone was wise to eliminate lust and desire from his hero’s manifesto, rendering the cowboy asexual and mitigating all unwelcome emotional entanglements.<br />
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Donnelly and Moody exchange harsh words. Could Donnelly be the film’s secret weapon? Could this be Induni’s moment of glory? This long-standing character actor – often limited to minor supporting roles, invariably as a lawman – certainly deserves a shot at the title, but will the film play fair? At this point in the film, Induni’s Donnelly seems to be the closest thing Brandy has to potential saviour. It’s looking good – Induni gets his very own fight scene, taking on multiple assailants with his fists, and sells it all wonderfully. Induni throws a couple of decent punches and moves convincingly, suggesting a hitherto undemonstrated physical prowess. Any hardcore SW fan should get a real kick out of this sequence; Induni is well deserving of the spotlight and the actor reveals himself to be a pretty tough hombre. This really is an unexpectedly great action set piece that erupts out of nowhere and threatens to be memorable, worth the price of admission alone. Why, then, one asks, was this ''entire'' sequence cut from the Spanish version, as noted above? In terms of physical action, it’s the centrepiece of Borau’s film.<br />
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Just as Donnelly is about to concede to the overwhelming odds, Brandy intervenes. Donnelly offers to buy Brandy a drink by way of thanks, but Brandy turns it down. ''“I no longer drink”'' he says, slipping into a newfound sobriety as if it were a new coat, seemingly unafflicted by crippling withdrawal sickness or debilitating tremens. One can’t help but wonder if the film might have benefitted from an extended cold turkey sequence; Brandy chained to a bed, sweating out his demons in real-time agony à la Gene Hackman in ''French Connection II'' (1975). Now that would have been something.<br />
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The young deputy Chico is shot and killed by Moody, which sends Brandy spiralling ever-more into cold, hard sobriety. As the fog of alcohol clears, Brandy begins to see the violent depravity strangling his beloved town, such stark realization the very worst kind of hangover. After this, the crooked politicians realise that they now have the perfect new candidate for sheriff in Brandy (easily manipulated and motivated by malleable addiction). Pastor Andrews calls them out on their reasoning for wanting Brandy elected. A pro-active priest in the SW was rare; the SW was often used as a condemnation of the church, or at least as a conduit of complaint for many leftist directors. Whilst Donnelly teaches the still-sober Brandy how to use a pistol, the ballot reveals Brandy to be Tombstone’s newly elected sheriff. Wasting no time, or, perhaps, making up for lost time, Brandy takes a warrant and confronts Moody. When Donnelly involves himself, Moody draws, but is outgunned by the older man. Sadly, Donnelly is gunned down moments later by the devious Chirilo. With just 12 minutes left on the clock, Induni exits the picture. Brandy hits the vengeance trail, although remains a deeply unconvincing presence with regard to legitimate threat. In ''Tequila Joe'', Anthony Ghidra’s titular lush was a former gunman and a prize-winning sharpshooter, his skillset tempered by the bottle, sure, but suppressed deep within, just waiting to be summoned and put back to good use. But Nichol’s Brandy has no such reserve, no history of violence, and so never entirely convinces.<br />
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Stalking Chirilo over a horizon of dangerous-looking rock formations, Brandy eventually throws Donnelly’s killer off a butte top, rewarding the viewer with a terrific dummy death. The banker attempts to flee, fleecing the town fathers, but is caught and forced to stay when Pritchard reveals he has called on a band of hired killers to go up against Brandy. Cue the town’s final stand, with the honest citizens fighting back, roused from their fearful apathy by the death of their beloved sheriff. Even Pastor Andrews partakes in some good ol’ fashioned killing (although, given his appearance on a wanted poster earlier in the film, this proves a missed opportunity to clarify that particular narrative strand, which remains abandoned).<br />
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The dénouement rings hollow and is oddly unsatisfying. Brandy wins Moody in the climatic brawl not because he’s the strongest or smartest, or because his character has earned said victory, but because the screenplay says so; because the film demands a neat, audience-friendly conclusion. I don’t buy it. Moody may be a thug, but he’s a physical beast, a killer. Brandy’s ultimate defeat of Moody carries no weight or impact. It’s nothing more than a narrative get-out clause. Does that undermine Borau’s film, though, or make it any less enjoyable? No, not at all.<br />
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On first viewing, especially in a print of dubious PQ, it’s easy to dismiss Borau’s film as a staid, distinctly average oater of the would-be-American mould, but – after multiple viewings in advance of this review – I’m not so sure that’s the case. As a whole, ''Brandy'' exhibits none of the flair or audacity that we have come to associate with the best of the Spaghetti westerns. There is little subversion of either form or audience expectation, nothing ground-breaking about its narrative path or technical execution (although the camera work is often fluid, restless, frequently in-motion), but the film is very well mounted and peppered with memorable moments that, whilst seemingly unremarkable at the time, linger long in the mind. And as much as I love the genre, many Europeans westerns were/remain indistinguishable by way of basic plotting and middling energy; Brandy, however, distinguishes itself slightly through tone and Borau’s careful attention to detail. His only western, Borau genuinely seems to care about his film and the characters that inhabit it. Whilst many spaghetti westerns limped blindly from action scene to action scene, the filmmakers fearful of losing the viewer’s attention in-between, Borau invests throughout, ensuring his connective tissue is just as thrilling as his gunplay. Borau is also the credited screenwriter (based upon the story ''‘The Sheriff of Tombstone’'' by José Mallorquí), which further validates his investment in the material.<br />
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''Brandy'' works remarkably well, then, when all is said and done. It ''feels'' different to those other prototypical westerns being produced around that same period, although it’s hard to articulate why, which makes it all the more disappointing that the film isn’t more well known. Had the film a stronger presence in the lead, perhaps, then maybe ''Brandy'' would enjoy a stronger reputation. But perhaps I’m missing the point; Alex Nicol was a good actor (his villainous turn in ''Savage Guns'' could hardly be more different to his placid, good-natured performance here), and maybe it’s his wispy, wallflower performance here that makes the film so effective: whilst Brandy’s ultimate victory might not wholly convince, likewise, not for one moment do Pritchard, Moody or Underhill ever acknowledge him as a legitimate threat to their enterprise. And so, whilst his eventual stand might not surprise the viewer, it certainly comes as a shock to those who sought to manipulate and control him. The moral is simple, the lesson plain: underestimate this character at your peril. The same could be said for Borau’s film itself.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto&diff=144395Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto2023-04-11T15:18:14Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:Ehi amigo sei morto poster.jpg|right|320px]]<br />
Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
<br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
[[File:EHIamigo.png|right|320px]]<br />
Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
<br />
[[File:Vlcsnap-2015-09-17-23h57m11s830.png|400px]]<br />
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And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
<br />
''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
<br />
[[File:Vlcsnap-2015-09-17-23h54m28s520.png|400px]]<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want ''him'' and him ''only''. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ''‘Filthy coward,’'' one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the stolen loot isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who ''is'' this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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[[File:Vlcsnap-2015-09-17-23h48m32s630.png|400px]]<br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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[[File:Sei Morto 1.jpg|400px]]<br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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[[File:Ehi amigo sei morto ItFb02.jpg|700px]]<br />
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''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
<br />
Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong ''Gatling'', but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for ''Amigo''. Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143077Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T19:00:30Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
<br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
<br />
Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
<br />
And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
<br />
''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
<br />
But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want ''him'' and him ''only''. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ''‘Filthy coward,’'' one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the stolen loot isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who ''is'' this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong ''Gatling'', but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143076Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:56:57Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
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Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
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Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
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But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
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By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
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And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
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''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want ''him'' and him ''only''. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ''‘Filthy coward,’'' one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the stolen loot isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who ''is'' this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143075Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:55:48Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
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Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
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Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
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But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
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By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
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And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
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''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want ''him'' and him ''only''. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ''‘Filthy coward,’'' one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the stolen loot isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143074Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:55:01Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
<br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
<br />
Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
<br />
And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
<br />
''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
<br />
But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want ''him'' and him ''only''. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ''‘Filthy coward,’'' one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
<br />
We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
<br />
Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
<br />
Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
<br />
Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
<br />
Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
<br />
Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
<br />
''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
<br />
Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
<br />
Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
<br />
''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143073Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:53:47Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
<br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
<br />
Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
<br />
And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
<br />
''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want ''him'' and him ''only''. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143072Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:52:02Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
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Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
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Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem, ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
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But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
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By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
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And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
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''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want him and him only. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143071Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:48:20Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''[[Ehi amigo... sei morto!]]/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
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Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
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Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ [[The Stranger Returns]]'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
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But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
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By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
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And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
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''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want him and him only. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''[[Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!]]'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''[[Lo voglio morto]]/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''[[Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco]]/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''[[Oggi a me... domani a te]]/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''[[Vivo per la tua morte]]/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''[[Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi]]/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143070Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:44:57Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
<br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
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Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ The Stranger Returns'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, ''Amigo'' isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
<br />
And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
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''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
<br />
But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want him and him only. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
<br />
Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''Lo voglio morto/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''Oggi a me... domani a te/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''Vivo per la tua morte/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
<br />
''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143069Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:44:00Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'', wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime ''Bandidos'' (1968).<br />
<br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult ''du jour'', cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, ''Brand of Cowardice''. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as ''Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God'' aka. ''Two Guns and a Coward'' (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
<br />
Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in ''Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ The Stranger Returns'' (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in ''Hey Amigo'' is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, Amigo isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem ''Rawhide'', the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, ''Amigo'' opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
<br />
And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ''‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’'' reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
<br />
''‘Do you want to get us all killed?’'' demands Doc.<br />
''‘You coward!’'' responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
''‘You’re on their side,’'' posits a woman.<br />
''‘You’re a coward,’'' another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want him and him only. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. ''Amigo'' feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ''‘What about Walter?’'' The grieving widow demands. ''‘What are you going to do?’'' Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ''‘Now I’m going to kill,’'' he cooly states, all matter of fact. ''‘All of ‘em.’''<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in ''Amigo'' feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. ''Eat that, Cuchillo.'' Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of ''Amigo'' is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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''Ehi amigo... sei morto!'' is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps ''Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. ''Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo!'' (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is ''Lo voglio morto/ I want Him Dead'' (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is ''Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco/ Gatling Gun'' (1968), the ''bona-fide'' classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, ''Gatling Gun'' remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. ''Amigo'' certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary ''Il profumo delle Zagare'' in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series ''Colt .45'' (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as ''Oggi a me... domani a te/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die!'' (1968), ''Vivo per la tua morte/ A Long Ride from Hell'' (1968), and ''Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi/ Sartana in the Valley of Death'' (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s ''C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West'' (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on ''Dynamite Joe''). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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''Amigo'' was produced by ''Gatto Cinematografica''. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest ''Gatto'' were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, ''Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!'' proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143068Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:37:34Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!, wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime Bandidos (1968).<br />
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Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult du jour, cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, Brand of Cowardice. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God aka. Two Guns and a Coward (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
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Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ The Stranger Returns (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in Hey Amigo is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, Amigo isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem Rawhide, the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
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But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
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By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, Amigo opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
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And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’ reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
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‘Do you want to get us all killed?’ demands Doc.<br />
‘You coward!’ responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
‘You’re on their side,’ posits a woman.<br />
‘You’re a coward,’ another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want him and him only. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. Amigo feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ‘What about Walter?’ The grieving widow demands. ‘What are you going to do?’ Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ‘Now I’m going to kill,’ he cooly states, all matter of fact. ‘All of ‘em.’<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in Amigo feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. Eat that, Cuchillo. Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
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Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist.<br />
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Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of Amigo is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
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Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
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Ehi amigo... sei morto! is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death! is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
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Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo! (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is Lo voglio morto/ I want Him Dead (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco/ Gatling Gun (1968), the bona-fide classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, Gatling Gun remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. Amigo certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary Il profumo delle Zagare in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
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Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series Colt .45 (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as Oggi a me... domani a te/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die! (1968), Vivo per la tua morte/ A Long Ride from Hell (1968), and Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi/ Sartana in the Valley of Death (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on Dynamite Joe). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
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Amigo was produced by Gatto Cinematografica. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest Gatto were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death! proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Gutless_Wonder:_Notes_on_Paolo_Bianchini%27s_Ehi_amigo..._sei_morto!&diff=143067Gutless Wonder: Notes on Paolo Bianchini's Ehi amigo... sei morto!2023-03-16T18:36:03Z<p>DGBell: Created page with "Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted..."</p>
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<div>Cowardice might seem an oddly contradictory theme for a genre built around a projected, near-mythical masculinity. The cinematic west was tamed by tough, decisive men determined to make an unhospitable frontier their rightful home. These pioneers were invariably men of action, at least in the celluloid retelling; only too willing to kill whilst (somewhat paradoxically) adhering to a strict and upright moral code. Of all cinematic heroes, the cowboy – that white-hatted paragon of virtue and decency – seems least likely to hesitate or proceed with caution when confronted by certain threat or injustice. And so it is that the viewer might-well be troubled by the opening act of Paolo Bianchini’s Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death!, wherein the denizens of a small border town are taken hostage by the nefarious Barnett (Rik Battaglia) and his crew of gunmen, among them Manolo (Raf Baldasarre) and Blake (Aldo Berti). Dave ‘Doc’ Williams (Wayde Preston) is slow to respond. The viewer – anticipating violent retaliation and cheap, obvious bluster that will establish said character as our hero – is left wanting. From there, both Bianchini and the film proceed to subvert expectation. Doc initially appears passive in the face of said intrusion: he is summarily humiliated, beaten and half-drowned in the first ten minutes of the film. Not only is he subjected to this brutal ignominy, but Doc is then chastised by his fellow citizens over his failure to act. But why such honed vehemence toward this character? Why do the bandits target Doc, specifically? And why do the townsfolk turn on him so quickly? Are they somehow cognizant of the fact that Doc is the nominal hero of the very story unfolding around them? It certainly seems that way, their ire a tad premature. One grieving citizen even blames Doc directly for the death of her husband, killed during the initial takeover (Doc didn’t intervene). In terms of Euro-western defamation, poor old Dave ‘Doc’ Williams is up there with the equally emasculated Richard Martin (Enrico Maria Salerno) from Massimo Dallamano’s sublime Bandidos (1968). <br />
Thematically speaking, cowardice in the western film was nothing new. The term ‘Yellow’ has become synonymous with western cinema as the insult du jour, cliché or not, and is the basis for most third-rate John Wayne impressions to this day. The genre has a long history of questioning the notion of frontier bravery and prairie duty, beginning as far back as 1916 with John Noble’s silent western, Brand of Cowardice. Likewise, heroic inertia as narrative strand was specifically commonplace within the European western, albeit more attributable to the townsfolk at large, who were often paralyzed by either fear or – worse – an overt apathy, necessitating action and/or intervention from the heroic figure. Indeed, such provincial inertia was often the main driving force behind many a plotline. Occasionally, in films such as Il pistolero segnato da Dio/ Gunman Sent by God aka. Two Guns and a Coward (Giorgio Ferroni, 1968), the notion of the cowboy as recreant was subject to a deeper, more focused exploration.<br />
Further muddying the waters with regard to Bianchini’s heroic inversion are costume choice and assigned character occupation. Throughout this opening scene, Doc is seen wearing a pink undergarment. Is Bianchini aligning said colour with femineity and, therefore – somewhat dubiously – lack of fortitude within our hero? Or is this just a realistic component of scene and setting (Doc is, after all, ambushed at dawn, caught off-guard whilst washing himself in a water trough, having presumably just rolled out of bed)? Or maybe Bianchini is merely having a laugh, taking a pot-shot at the genre’s amplified machismo – the pink thermals a visual pun à la Tony Anthony’s pink parasol in Un uomo, un cavallo, una pistola/ The Stranger Returns (1967). Whatever the reason, said costuming decision had to be a deliberate move on behalf of Bianchini – a subtle visual subversion which indicates just how slyly the filmmaker was approaching the genre at this point, with this film, his fourth and final western. Another interesting variation of the usual genre tropes in Hey Amigo is Doc’s given profession, which again could be seen as Bianchini tweaking the standard. In a genre crammed with gunfighters, cardsharps, bounty killers, hired guns, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and vengeance-seekers, it’s interesting to find a protagonist plying an honest trade, as it is revealed that Doc is the town postmaster. In terms of establishing his leading avenger in a moody western-action picture, Bianchini should be lauded: the Passive Postman in Pink is clearly a novel conceit. And yet, despite that base description, Amigo isn’t a John Waters-esque parody or limp distortion of the form, but a modestly diverting, low-key spaghetti western proper, and a film which this article seeks to celebrate. (There is also the possibility that Bianchini could be referencing Henry Hathaway’s overlooked gem Rawhide, the 1951 American western in which a beleaguered mail company employee, played by Tyrone Power, finds himself up against four outlaws who lay siege to an isolated stagecoach way station.)<br />
But here’s the rub. Whilst Doc might – along with every other member of the corralled townsfolk – be guilty of inaction and easy subjugation, maybe his failure to act wasn’t through lack of courage. Maybe Doc’s decision to play along was one born of strategy, of survival instinct and self-preservation; of an icy-cool pragmatism: again, all acknowledged precepts of the spaghetti western hero. Maybe the viewer, like Barnett and his motley crew of marauders, has been deceived by this most cunning and unassuming of protagonists? We’ll see.<br />
By 1970, the genre had settled into a comfortable, somewhat predictable pattern of patented narrative beats/production tropes. As such, Amigo opens with the now-requisite theme, written and composed by Carlo Savina and sung by Los Angeles-born crooner Don Powell. Interestingly, though, the opening credits do not play out over the established riding montage of the lone hero’s journey. Here, Bianchini focuses on the mule-riding character of Loco – the ostensible jester and sidekick figure, here played by the portly Marco Zuanelli. The film soon settles down to business, however. Bianchini pitches the viewer into his film at the deep end, demanding his audience sink or swim, with no concession made to anything as arbitrary or humdrum as set-up. In fact, so abrupt and dynamic is this sudden gearshift that the viewer might well be caught off-guard, as shocked and appalled at this sudden breach of violence as the onscreen victims.<br />
And so, Barnett and his men lay siege to a small, dusty, unnamed Texas town. The place is dilapidated, dying. The photography is suitably grim and muddy, the climate captured cold and unwelcoming. Savina’s score is purposeful and disquieting during these early scenes, atonal and unsettling. Men, women and children are herded like cattle and corralled into the local store. ‘We’re just a poor little village. Nobody has any money,’ reasons a hostage. A head count reveals the captives are a villager down. How did Barnett and his men know? Do they have an inside man in town? Bianchini’s film revels in small details: One of the bandits flattens a wasp against a slab of cured meat and slices off a mouthful. The bandits wait on the incoming stagecoach. The missing villager dares to act, loading his pistol and making a stand, but is immediately gunned down for his troubles; time and time again, the spaghetti western chewed up and spat out any foolhardy attempt at candid heroics, and so it is here. Doc even prevents one of his fellow hostages from striking back against one of their captors, catching the man’s fist mid-swing. Not only is he reluctant as to his own intervention, but so too does Doc seem loathed to let anybody else assume the heroic mantle:<br />
‘Do you want to get us all killed?’ demands Doc.<br />
‘You coward!’ responds the hostage, before being thrown back in line with the rest of the captives.<br />
Two more of his fellow citizens then step forward to rebuke Doc.<br />
‘You’re on their side,’ posits a woman.<br />
‘You’re a coward,’ another man reiterates.<br />
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But the bulk of Bianchini’s film will prove them wrong in their hasty, collective assertation. Doc is merely playing the odds. He knows the bandits want him and him only. They need Doc in order for their criminal plan to succeed. He is, after all, the established postmaster, and will prove familiar to the incoming stagecoach drivers, who will soon be making a drop-off at the North-Western Bank, the reason for their siege. Bianchini’s opening is meticulous in both staging and execution. By 1970, many SW had grown cheap and rough-hewn as the zeitgeist began to splutter out, but not here. Amigo feels like Bianchini and his cinematographer, Sergio D'Offizi, were both heavily invested, the film extremely confident in its visual precision. The Butterfield stagecoach company men are duly massacred in cold blood, with Doc looking on, impotent from behind a corpse; it’s hard to tell if he’s using the still-warm body as a shield. (The moustachioed Preston bears an uncanny resemblance to Richard Harrison here, never noticeable before.) Barnett and his men then clear out with their spoils. Doc unties the hostages, although given their joint grievance, the viewer might well wonder why he bothers – ungrateful bastards, all. ‘Filthy coward,’ one of them snarls upon being released. Again, what has Doc done to warrant this resentment, this blame? It’s difficult to fathom. The town charge after him, berating him further, seemingly more angry at their postmaster than the men responsible for the decimation of their peaceful town. ‘What about Walter?’ The grieving widow demands. ‘What are you going to do?’ Doc turns to the camera, veil of fragile detachment slipping, Bianchini the director and Preston the actor revealing the man behind the mask for the first time proper. ‘Now I’m going to kill,’ he cooly states, all matter of fact. ‘All of ‘em.’<br />
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We’re only ten minutes into the film, but such was Doc’s feigned serfdom during that extended opening sequence that the viewer feels somehow relieved at this overdue, near-cathartic show of force. Meanwhile, Barnett and his crew discover that the loot stolen isn’t gold but plain, worthless rocks. Certain that the stagecoach itself contains the intended loot, an undeterred Barnett deigns to take the coach to a local mine for further investigation. Doc, meanwhile, begins his pursuit – but what of his motivation? It can’t be revenge, as all he took was a couple of decent slaps and a rough dunking. It can’t be on behalf of the townsfolk (not even the heartsick widow), as those people were a bunch of whining ingrates. Professional pride, perhaps? The station having been robbed on his watch? Or bruised ego – Doc’s masculinity having been impugned in a public forum, before a pretty lady, no less? Whatever the determining factor, Doc has shaken off his counterfeit funk and is on the hunt. Gone are the pink undergarments: Doc is now dressed in pure black, as if galloping toward a funeral. Preston looks the business here. Often in the Euro-western, a hero cloaked in black was nothing more than a lazy citation to the Colonel Mortimer standard, but here the costuming looks appropriately sombre and befitting of Doc’s hostile mood. Reticent cur to avenging angel by the twenty-five-minute mark is no mean feat, and yet said arc is convincingly rendered. It’s as if Bianchini is withholding information from the viewer regarding the Doc character. In a genre where ‘Mysterious Stranger’ was often charitable parlance for wafer-thin character development, Doc emerges as a genuinely intriguing presence: Just who is this man? What is his background? Why the effortless subterfuge? Waiting on easy answers (ex-lawman, former soldier, reformed criminal et al), the viewer is gifted no concrete explanation by Bianchini or his screenwriters, and Doc remains an enigma to the end. As such, the stakes in Amigo feel suitably low yet wholly appropriate. No dead wife or blood debt, just a regular Joe out to make sure ecumenical justice is served in absence of any recognizable law. <br />
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Doc rides into the next town, where Barnett’s lieutenant, Manolo (Baldassare) pays off numerous hired guns to have him killed. It’s in the saloon that Doc meets Loco, the jovial, jaw-harp twanging sidekick. Preston smiles here for the first time in the film, and if the gesture feels a tad incongruous, it also provides Doc with a warmth and humanity often missing from the genetic make-up of your average spaghetti gunslinger. There follows an impressive sequence wherein Doc stalks the town’s Main Street by night, moonlight filtering down and illuminating the framing buildings’ facias. Lighting and composition are bang on-point here, proving that – even as late as 1970 – there were still spaghetti westerns capable of high artistry being produced during this twilight period. Loco warns Doc about the paid gunmen lying in wait, but our hero remains unphased. He sinks into shadow, that heart of darkness a suitable camouflage, and sets about slaughtering those who mean him harm. Bianchini has his hired killers slink into shot, morphing from night, led by the nose of their firearms, but Doc cuts them all down with ease before quickly being arrested. His plea for self-defence goes unheard by the distracted, alcoholic judge, who is too busy eyeballing a bottle of scotch as if it were a potential lover. The narrative seems somewhat confused here. Doc is imprisoned for thirty days but doesn’t seem remotely bothered by this turn of events. He’s barely begun his quest for justice, and the surviving bandits are now aware he’s in town, imprisoned like a sitting duck, and yet Doc appears totally ambivalent to said incarceration as if it were a minor inconvenience. Loco duly springs him, however, citing friendship as rationale, and the pudgy joker saddles up with Doc. Marco is an odd but workable choice for the role normally essayed by, say, Sancho or Camardiel; his character suitably ambiguous with regard to decency and/or possible betrayal. <br />
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Loco is soon captured, however, and summarily abused by Barnett and his men. Battaglia’s performance here is excellent. He plays Barnett as a multi-faceted character, not just a cardboard villain. As Barnett presses Loco for information on their pursuer, the duplicitous Blake (Berti) attempts to steal the loot. Said betrayal occurs in a church – neither surprise nor coincidence, given the often-anticlerical condemnation of religion by the many leftist directors who worked within the genre. There follows a clutch of decent action beats in which Doc, from a rooftop vantage point, takes out many of Barnett’s men, picking them off from above like some deranged sniper. Then, as if to demonstrate he’s as proficient with a blade as he is bullets, Doc throws dual knifes at two men simultaneously, killing both. Eat that, Cuchillo. Throughout this sequence, Bianchini crosscuts back-and-forth between Doc and Loco, the Mexican peasant hanging from a noose, time and life slipping from him as the grain bag on which he stands spills its contents. <br />
Finally, it comes down to Barnett and second-in-command Manolo shooting it out with Doc. Doc blasts Manolo through the top of the head, from a loft, capping a scene of extended tension. Barnett strides through town like a vengeful dandy, decked out in a burgundy jacket and sporting floppy, foppish hair. Doc tricks Barnett by donning his dead lieutenant’s coat and pretending to be Manolo. In a rare moment of ill-conceived staging by Bianchini, hero and villain exchange gunfire from a distance of some ten or so feet – Doc from behind a haystack and Barnett a barrel, neither object persuasively bulletproof – until Barnett takes one to the temple. This proves an interesting and mildly shocking turn, with Bianchini basically – and unceremoniously – retiring his main villain at the one-hour mark, and thus promoting Judas henchmen Blake to the role of main antagonist. <br />
Having saved Loco from the noose, they set off to track down Blake and the missing gold. In an odd, almost unnecessary narrative detour, they come across a farmhouse where a woman grieves over her murdered husband, victim of Blake. The widow recounts events, shown via hazy flashback, wherein Blake slays her lover before raping her. With his bright red shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, Blake looks ridiculous here, but remains a sleazy, credible threat despite the odd wardrobe choice. There follows a visually striking scene in which Doc and Loco bury the dead man at dusk; it’s a beautifully shot sequence which makes full use of the widescreen Techniscope frame and the haunting locale. This impromptu burial is interrupted by gunshot, the widow having committed suicide in the house. Bianchini shows nothing but infers everything. Much of Amigo is crisply photographed, with enough natural sun-flare captured on screen to make JJ Abrahams or Michael Bay envious.<br />
Somehow, Blake has made it back to Doc’s hometown, scene of the original robbery, the film having gone full-circle, and is about to rape the unnamed blonde who was heavily featured in the opening hostage crisis. The sexual obsessions of the Blake character add an additional layer of seediness to the villain. Doc takes the door off its hinges with a mere shoulder barge, saving the day, and proceeds to leather Blake until he reveals the location of the stolen gold. This prolonged fight sequence is superbly staged, down and dirty, with Preston doing all of his own stunts, including getting his head repeatedly bashed against a barn wall. In a nice reversal of fortune, it is Doc who holds Blake’s head underwater in the very same trough as in the opening scene. With the last of the bandits dead, and the score ostensibly settled, Doc rides off. This makes little sense – didn’t Doc live there? Reuniting with Loco, Doc reclaims the stolen gold in an oddly unsatisfying and abrupt ending. There is no easy resolution or redemptive triumph here. No sequence of Doc returning the gold or the townsfolk thanking him/apologizing for their selfish behaviour earlier in the film. If Doc is robbed of any communal absolution, then, so too, is the viewer denied the satisfaction of seeing a hero’s vindication. Roll end credits.<br />
Ehi amigo... sei morto! is, in many ways, an unremarkable film. It rarely deviates from the formulaic, has no standout scenes, and the pay-off is borderline unsatisfactory. And yet everything sticks to landing, thanks mainly to Bianchini’s stripped-down style and clean, unfussy direction. There’ s a few unnecessary moments of Fidani-esque padding here and there (bandits ride, Doc rides, bandits ride, Doc rides), but it never feels like Bianchini or his film are spinning their wheels. (Literally – at one point, Barnett and his men remove the wheels from the stagecoach so as best to make a swifter escape into the mine.) What’s with that title, though? Or titles, rather? They’re deceptively fluffy – more befitting, perhaps, of a lighter film; going by any of those loose monikers, one could easily assume that Bianchini’s film might be one of those dreaded ‘comedy’ westerns which brought the genre to its knees as it entered the 1970s. Rest assured, it’s not. On second thought, maybe Bianchini is fucking with us; perhaps Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death! is emblematic of tone and attitude; such casual pessimism and irony were, after all, two of the founding tenets of the European western proper, and Bianchini’s film proves a quintessential third-tier entry.<br />
Amigo was Bianchini’s fourth western as director. Dio li crea... Io li ammazzo! (1968) is a cheap-looking, threadbare affair; an inauspicious, negligible genre debut despite the presence of spaghetti heavyweights Piero Lulli and Peter Martell. Much better is Lo voglio morto/ I want Him Dead (1968), a longstanding fan-favourite starring Craig Hill, José Manuel Martín, José Canalejas and Frank Braña. I’ve never been as taken with that film as many others in the fan community, but it’s an undeniably tough, deathly-serious film brimming with conviction. Bianchini’s finest contribution to the western genre, however, is Quel caldo maledetto giorno di fuoco/ Gatling Gun (1968), the bona-fide classic starring Robert Woods, Roberto Camardiel, and John Ireland. An historically skewed tale based around a missing prototype of the titular weapon, Gatling Gun remains a superb spaghetti western and a great film, period – maybe even top twenty canon. Amigo certainly isn’t as strong Gatling, but three out of four remains a solid batting average for the director. Somewhat impressively, Bianchini is not only still with us – as of writing – but remains active in the industry, having written and directed the documentary Il profumo delle Zagare in 2022, at the grand old age of 90. <br />
Bianchini assembled a small yet rock-solid cast for Amigo Wayde Preston was the token American lead import and acquits himself well. Preston was mainly known for the ABC television western series Colt .45 (1957 – 1960) but is recognizable to SW fans from his appearances in such European westerns as Oggi a me... domani a te/ Today We Kill... Tomorrow We Die! (1968), Vivo per la tua morte/ A Long Ride from Hell (1968), and Sartana nella valle degli avvoltoi/ Sartana in the Valley of Death (1970). Preston has a nice, loose everyman quality about him which makes him appear more vulnerable than most leading men. Main antagonist Battaglia was the handsome, Corbola-born actor whose career proliferated during the peplum and spaghetti western booms, equally adept with sword or pistol, whilst henchman Raf Baldassare remains a quintessential character face within our favourite genre – a serious candidate for the Mount Rushmore of Euro-westerns. Marco Zuanelli, here playing the by-now mandatory sidekick role, will forever remain indelible in the minds of SW fans for his minor role as Wobbles in Sergio Leone’s C'era una volta il West/Once Upon a Time in the West (1969). Agnès Spaak, in the small role of the doomed Pachita, is the sister of the more prolific actress Catherine Spaak. Musically, Carlo Savina’s score seems omnipresent throughout the film. I can’t remember a frame of the film without its backing, which is odd given the repetitive, motif-focused nature of the music (even the GDM soundtrack CD runs a paltry 40mins in total, and that includes Powell’s theme song, and even then, some of the cues appear to be a clean lift from Savina’s earlier work on Dynamite Joe). At certain points in the film, Savina’s score is so loud and intrusive that it becomes overbearing. I don’t recall an effective score being so overused to the point of overkill. <br />
Amigo was produced by Gatto Cinematografica. Again and again with the spaghetti western, we see a one-shot production company/outfit created specifically for the purpose of making the film at hand. I can find no evidence to suggest Gatto were involved in the production of any further filmic ventures (Euro-western or otherwise). Lensed during a regrettable period of rapid decline for the spaghetti western, Bianchini’s film remains stubbornly grim-faced, swimming against the then-changing tide of woeful slapstick. More Lo-Fi than low-brow, and all the better for it, Ehi amigo... sei morto!/ Hey, Amigo… A Toast to Your Death! proves to be a rewarding, mid-tier entry which – much like its hero – has a little more going for it than one might think at first glance.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=141242Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2023-02-08T21:00:34Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''[[Grande silenzio, Il|Il Grande Silenzio]]'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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[[File:Spacconata1.jpg]]<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]] / White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]] / White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including [[Franco Nero]], Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]] / A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]] / Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West / Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo / The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado / Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
<br />
[[File: Spacconataposter.jpg]]<br />
<br />
The opening credits promise much. The music by [[Alessandro Alessandroni]] is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant presence throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
<br />
When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
<br />
As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar / Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
<br />
It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
<br />
Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone may well have purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
<br />
[[File: La spacconata ItFb.jpg]]<br />
<br />
''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
<br />
In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
<br />
And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s ''Rin Tin Tin'' movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
<br />
Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
<br />
Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]'' is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
[[File:Whisky.jpg|right]]<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mounties merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]] / The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
<br />
Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that very film.<br />
<br />
{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]<br />
[[Category:Articles]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=141241Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2023-02-08T20:54:20Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''[[Grande silenzio, Il|Il Grande Silenzio]]'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
[[File:Spacconata1.jpg]]<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]] / White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]] / White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including [[Franco Nero]], Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]] / A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]] / Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West / Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo / The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado / Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
<br />
[[File: Spacconataposter.jpg]]<br />
<br />
The opening credits promise much. The music by [[Alessandro Alessandroni]] is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant presence throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
<br />
When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
<br />
As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar / Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone may well have purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
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[[File: La spacconata ItFb.jpg]]<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s ''Rin Tin Tin'' movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]'' is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
[[File:Whisky.jpg|right]]<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]] / The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that very film.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]<br />
[[Category:Articles]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=141240Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2023-02-08T20:48:30Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''[[Grande silenzio, Il|Il Grande Silenzio]]'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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[[File:Spacconata1.jpg]]<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]] / White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
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The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]] / White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including [[Franco Nero]], Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]] / A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]] / Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West / Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo / The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado / Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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[[File: Spacconataposter.jpg]]<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by [[Alessandro Alessandroni]] is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar / Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
<br />
Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone may well have purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
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[[File: La spacconata ItFb.jpg]]<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s ''Rin Tin Tin'' movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]'' is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
[[File:Whisky.jpg|right]]<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]] / The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that very film.<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]<br />
[[Category:Articles]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137087Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T20:16:59Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
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The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone may well have purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s ''Rin Tin Tin'' movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. ''La Spacconata'' is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.<br />
<br />
{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Reviews]]<br />
[[Category:Articles]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137082Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T20:01:16Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
<br />
The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
<br />
When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
<br />
As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
<br />
It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
<br />
Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
<br />
''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
<br />
In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
<br />
And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s ''Rin Tin Tin'' movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
<br />
Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
<br />
Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. ''La Spacconata'' is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
<br />
Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137080Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:59:18Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
<br />
The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s ''Rin Tin Tin'' movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137079Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:58:23Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
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The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is ''much'' here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137078Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:57:27Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
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The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
<br />
Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
<br />
Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse ''La Spacconata'' of being bland or merely average. ''Tasteless?'' Yes. ''Inconsistent?'' Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel ''Movies4Men'' some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137077Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:55:08Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
<br />
The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
<br />
When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
<br />
As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
<br />
Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
<br />
''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
<br />
In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
<br />
And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did it sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
<br />
Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
<br />
Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
<br />
Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137076Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:53:23Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nello Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137075Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:51:19Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, ''[[Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, Il|Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca]]'', would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nallo Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137072Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:49:23Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
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The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''[[Zanna Bianca]]/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''[[Quanto costa morire]]/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''[[Condenados a vivir]]/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''[[Carogne si nasce]]/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''[[Mio nome è Nessuno, Il|Il Mio nome è Nessuno]]/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nallo Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of ''White Fang''-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''[[Fiume di dollari, Un|Un Fiume di dollari]]/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
<br />
Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137062Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:41:43Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''[[Spacconata, La|La Spacconata]]/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''Zanna Bianca/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''Quanto costa morire/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''Condenados a vivir/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
<br />
The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
<br />
When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
<br />
As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
<br />
It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
<br />
Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''Carogne si nasce/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''Il Mio nome è Nessuno/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
<br />
''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
<br />
In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nallo Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
<br />
And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
<br />
Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of White Fang-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
<br />
Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
<br />
In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''Un Fiume di dollari/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
<br />
Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
<br />
Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137059Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:38:37Z<p>DGBell: </p>
<hr />
<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
<br />
Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
<br />
And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''La Spacconata/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''Zanna Bianca/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''Quanto costa morire/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''Condenados a vivir/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''Carogne si nasce/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''Il Mio nome è Nessuno/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nallo Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of White Fang-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''Un Fiume di dollari/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137058Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:37:39Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded ''Dollars'' trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in ''Il Grande Silenzio'' (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; ''Silenzio'' remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s ''La Spacconata/White Fang and the Gold Diggers'' (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for ''La Spacconata'', despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
<br />
The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s ''Zanna Bianca/ White Fang''. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, ''Zanna Bianca'' remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s ''Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat'', a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This ''White Fang''-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of ''Silenzio'', ''Quanto costa morire/A Taste of Death'' (1968), ''Condenados a vivir/Cut-Throats Nine'' (1972), ''El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada'' (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. ''Zanna Blanca'' and its kin, including La Spacconata, ''Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure'' (1971) and ''Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre'' (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the ''White Fang'' sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, ''10,000 Ways to Die'', Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in ''Cut-Throats Nine''. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum ''La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians'', starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: ''La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law'' is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy ''Club Vacanze'' (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s ''La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space'', the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western ''Carogne si nasce/Lynching''. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) ''La Spacconata'' isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder ''Il Mio nome è Nessuno/My Name is Nobody'' (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But ''La Spacconata'' ain’t ''Nobody'', and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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''La Spacconata'' contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nallo Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. ''La Spacconata'' is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in ''La Spacconata'' is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of White Fang-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant ''Un Fiume di dollari/The Hills Run Red'' (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state ''La Spacconata'' is based on a novel, ''Pioneers and Gold-Seekers'' by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, ''La Spacconata'' was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s ''Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano''''Italic text'' (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer ''La Spacconata''’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, ''La Spacconata'' remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced ''La Spacconata'' when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a ''Lassie'' film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. ''La Spacconata'' might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Winter_%26_Whiskey:_Alfonso_Brescia%27s_La_spacconata_(1975)&diff=137053Winter & Whiskey: Alfonso Brescia's La spacconata (1975)2022-11-30T19:29:34Z<p>DGBell: Created page with "Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both suppo..."</p>
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<div>Tone is everything in cinema. It establishes an all-important mood and serves as emotional indicator, riding tandem with the more cerebral, rational elements of narrative structure and story. Tone speaks to the filmmaker’s intent via conjured feeling and atmosphere. Such resonance is critical to the success and/or enjoyment of any film, no matter what genre. Tone should, ideally, be trusted – serve as binding contract between viewer and film, consistent in both support and reflection of the story at hand. This is especially true of the European western, where coherence, basic film grammar and – it must be said – quality were often sacrificed in favour of attitude and ruthless efficiency. Leone, for example, maintained a dependably ironic tone throughout his lauded Dollars trilogy, the three films linked by a patented climate of sardonic detachment (inadvertently establishing the blueprint for the Spaghetti Western phenomena in the process). Corbucci, on the other hand, at least in his best Italian westerns, opted for a darker, more sombre signature, peaking with a near-perfect air of anguish and heartbreak in Il Grande Silenzio (1967). That film remains, perhaps, the finest example – at least within our own beloved wheelhouse – of a master filmmaker in total and utter command of projected ambience; Silenzio remains a haunting, deeply affecting picture thanks to its beautifully sustained atmosphere of tragic gloom.<br />
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Alas, not all films or filmmakers are as successful at nailing tone. Often, defining a determined aura can be a delicate balancing act; blending genre – or at least the amalgamation of generic elements – can often lead to a debilitating imbalance, maybe even the death of a film. One need only look at the decline of the Spaghetti Western itself to see a frustrating – and wholly unwelcome – asymmetry take hold in the form of many a wretched ‘comedy’ western; that unfortunate tonal trend not only ruined many an individual film, but managed to destabilize the entre genre, running the Euro-western into the ground before killing it outright.<br />
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And then there is Alfonso Brescia’s La Spacconata/White Fang and the Gold Diggers (1975), a film so tonally deaf that it transcends its dizzying air of confusion and emerges as something akin to cinematic schizophrenia – the filmic equivalent of bipolar disorder. Forget the film critics of the period – Brescia’s film should have been screened instead before a psychiatric committee, who would have undoubtedly diagnosed the film with multiple personality disorder. For full disclosure, I have nothing but unconditional love for La Spacconata, despite its myriad problems, but after each successive rewatch, several nagging questions (re)emerge: Who is this film for? What demographic was Brescia’s intended contemporary audience? After multiple viewings, there remain no easy answers. This is a film about a young boy and his dog (White Fang, or Whiskey, as the pooch is referred to in the English dub, is definitely not a wolf – it looks more like a common German Shepherd), a synopsis seemingly tailor-made for family viewing. Or it would be, had Brescia not crammed his film with such atrocities as gang rape, murder, stillbirth, and endless scenes of animal-on-animal cruelty (and even more reprehensible, human-on-animal abuse). Indeed, the film vacillates wildly throughout the course of its running time between moments of genuine pathos – all pitched against a backdrop of evocative, wintry landscapes – to sequences of such bewildering, repugnant savagery (not to mention skits of facile comedy) that the viewer is left in a state of absonant whiplash. As jarring as this tonal cocktail is, though, it wasn’t totally without precedent.<br />
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The popularity of the spaghetti western boom led to many off-shoots and variations on the established framework: the Zapata westerns, some notable Gothic-infused entries, the afore-mentioned comedy-westerns, the kung fu hybrids and even the occasional musical variant. One of said tributaries ran North, however, into colder climates, following the financial success of Lucio Fulci’s Zanna Bianca/ White Fang. Based on the Jack London classic, this 1973 release starred a roster of SW notables, including Franco Nero, Fernando Rey, Raimund Harmstorf, John Steiner, Daniel Martin and Rick Battaglia. A surprising hit at the box office, it immediately spawned a slew of cash-in and imitators, as per the mimetic industry at that time. Ostensibly a children’s film, albeit one shot through the harsh, misanthropic filter now-synonymous with Fulci, Zanna Bianca remains a difficult film to classify (and an even harder film to like), containing much gruelling violence and unfortunate animal cruelty (the 1974 sequel, Il Ritorno di Zanna Bianca, would double-down on such ugly, recurrent elements). Revenue superseding good taste, however, ensured that a run of similarly wolf-themed, snowbound adventures followed in the wake of Fulci’s sizable hit. (This sub-genre can be broken down further to include a short-lived crest of Canadian Mountie spaghetti westerns, the best of which might be Aristide Massaccesi’s Giubbe Rosse/Red Coat, a rock-solid adventure from 1975 starring Fabio Testi, Claudio Undari and Bruno Corazzari.) This White Fang-esque sub-genre should not be confused – or lumped in with – the snow spaghetti western legitimate, however. The likes of Silenzio, Quanto costa morire/A Taste of Death (1968), Condenados a vivir/Cut-Throats Nine (1972), El Más fabuloso golpe del Far-West/ Nevada (1971) et al should all be classified as authentic winter-set spaghettis. Zanna Blanca and its kin, including La Spacconata, Il Richiamo del lupo/The Great Adventure (1971) and Il Tre del Colorado/Hudson River Massacre (1965), however, feel more indebted to Yukon or Canadian-set adventure films: malformed offspring of Jack London and the incorruptible Mounties who upheld law and order throughout the Great White North. (With regard to a certain debate, I am of the opinion that all of these films are spaghetti westerns).<br />
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The opening credits promise much. The music by Alessandro Alessandroni is mournful, lyrical stuff; it supplements the fine cinematography of DoP Silvio Fraschetti beautifully. The film wastes no time in introducing us to our hero, Sandy Shaw. Shaw is well-played by Robert Woods. The term “hero” is applicable here, which can’t often be said for most spaghetti protagonists (or, if appropriate, is normally – and deservedly – pre-fixed with an emphatic anti). Revenge and money were the two most common driving factors behind most SW leads, the genre erring on the cynical side compared to its more principled American antecedents. But not so here. Shaw is a good man who, along with his son, Rick, is looking to start his life anew after inheriting a property called Eagle’s Nest. Shaw is not your typically stoic Euro-western cowboy. Picking his son up after their sled violently topples during the opening credits, Shaw is open about his fears and doubt. ‘I’m sorry, Rick,’ he says. ‘This is a harsh land, and I’m not sure I did the right thing bringing a boy here to raise.’ This is good writing with regard to establishing character. The widowed Shaw has brought his young son out North, in the midst of an oppressive and unforgiving winter, in the hopes of striking gold on his land and thus providing a better life for both. It’s a huge, perilous gamble, and our hero (there’s that word again) is torn as to the paternal worth of his decision. Said move could be interpreted as either foolish or selfish, but Woods elicits an immediate empathy in his wide-eyed playing. The viewer has a rare human being to root for in a European western, as opposed to a stock cliché. Travelling with father and son is the aforementioned Whiskey, the loyal family mutt. Whiskey is well-used: Brescia never makes the dog the focal point of his film, but nor does he cast the animal adrift in terms of appearance. Whiskey remains a constant present throughout the film, never integral to the plot but featured enough to warrant the picture’s inclusion in the White Fang sub-genre.<br />
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When Shaw and Rick arrive at their shack, they find it already occupied. The squatter is a jovial, overweight drunk called Dollar (played by Pedro Sanchez a.k.a. Ignazio Spalla). In his book, 10,000 Ways to Die, Alex Cox refers to a certain strand of subsidiary characters exclusive to the Italian western as ‘cute/funny’ and lambasts them as inconsequential irritants. Dollar certainly fits that bill. The friendly vagrant instantly endears himself to the Shaw family, mostly by talking up his love of alcohol, bragging about his culinary skills and exchanging witty bon mots with his pet parrot (who, beyond the bird’s introduction, is never referred to again, even when the shack is set alight later in the film). This introductory stuff is played fairly light, but it works. The actors are charismatic, the English dubbing is solid and even the kid isn’t the usual cinematic equivalent of having hot grit thrown into your eyes.<br />
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As the plot kicks in, the film reveals that the local town is run by the corrupt Barney Taft. Taft is played by the great Robert Hundar/Claudio Hundari, the actor back in the snow following his superb work in Cut-Throats Nine. Like Piero Lulli, Hundar was equally adept at playing both villain (mostly) and hero (occasionally). In one hilarious scene, the viewer is treated to just how deep-rooted and far-reaching Taft’s tendrils are around town: when Shaw goes to buy a pickaxe in order to begin his gold-mining operation, the store clerk tells him that the set price is $200. Shaw balks at the cost but is told that Taft himself fixes all prices. This seems like poor business acumen on Taft’s part; he’s controlling (read: stealing) all prospective gold claims within the area but seems to be pricing the townsfolk out of striking said fortunes. Surely the smart thing to do would be to practically give the tools away, ensuring a swift return when gold is eventually found? Regardless, Taft isn’t happy about the new owners at Eagle’s Nest. Indeed, Dollar reveals to Shaw that all previous tenants/owners at Eagles Nest have met a sticky end at the hands of Taft and his men. Shaw, of course, isn’t discouraged (thankfully, he never appears to give any real thought to his son’s safety in this matter).<br />
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It's here that the film reveals its hand (or a hand) far too soon. The camera follows Dollar as he slopes away from the shack and enters a cave located nearby. Inside, the viewer sees that said cave is actually a mine, and that the glistening walls are lined with solid gold. Helping himself to a nugget – Dollar isn’t greedy, just wants to cover the cost of a bottle or two in the local saloon – he then makes his way back into town, only to be intercepted by Rick and Whiskey. Whilst Rick wants to tell his father about the gold, Dollar convinces the boy that such an easy solution would rob the poverty-stricken widower of all purpose. This is a ridiculous juncture in the plotting, instantly robbing the film of any suspense as to whether or not Shaw will prosper or succeed in his endeavours. Luckily for the viewer, Brescia doesn’t give a damn about traditional narrative storytelling. Instead, he ensures his film remains wilfully obtuse, often defiantly so, the pic exhibiting an almost abstract grandeur.<br />
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Alfonso Brescia was one of the great journeymen filmmakers working in the industry during the golden age of Italian genre cinema. Like many of his contemporaries, Brescia began his career as a 2nd unit assistant director in the late 1950s before making his directorial debut in 1964 with the rock-solid peplum La rivolta dei pretoriani/ Revolt of the Praetorians, starring Richard Harrison. Brescia’s first western proper came the following year: La Colt è la mia legge/ My Colt is the Law is a very good Spanish western of the romantic variety. It stars Ángel del Pozo and Livio Lorenzon. From there, Brescia ran the gamut of whatever filoni was then-in vogue, including sci-fi, Gialli, Poliziotteschi, horror and even the odd Conan knock-off. Brescia was a solid craftsman, and whilst none of his work achieved classic status, his films were never less than well-made and enjoyable. Quality aside, it is claimed that Brescia’s films never lost money, save his final film, the comedy Club Vacanze (1995), which failed to find a domestic distributor. He was, therefore, a safe bet for profit-hungry producers. His finest work likely remains the late-day series of Neapolitan-set crime films he made with then-popular singer/actor Mario Merola. Sadly, Brescia’s name is now most commonly associated with 1980’s La bestia nello spazio/ Beast in Space, the gonzo sex-in-space romp which suffered the indignity of having hardcore penetration sequences spliced into the film. That notoriety aside, Brescia should be both remembered and celebrated by fans of genre cinema. Too-often dismissed as mere director-for-hire, Brescia could occasionally surprise, as with his excellent – albeit underseen – 1968 spaghetti western Carogne si nasce/Lynching. (That film was recently released on DVD in Germany from True Grit Entertainment, in a limited run of 500 individually numbered units per two different covers. It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/seeing.) La Spacconata isn’t in that same league, but the film occasionally hints at a sombre greatness it can’t quite sustain. Much of that feels like self-sabotage on the part of Brescia himself, however, as if the director was determined to ruin his own film with random moments of misjudged, base immaturity. Much has been written and surmised over the years regarding the tonal discrepancies within Tonino Vallerii’s near-wonder Il Mio nome è Nessuno/My Name is Nobody (1973). Having considered much evidence and authoritative conjecture on that subject, I’m of the opinion that Leone purposefully ruined Valleri’s film, fearful it might have eclipsed his own masterworks in terms of final word elegy. But La Spacconata ain’t Nobody, and I doubt anybody forced their artistic control on Brescia’s film, so the blame must sit squarely on the director’s shoulders. And there is much here to be blamed for.<br />
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La Spacconata contains two of the most ridiculously unconvincing – and painfully unfunny – barroom brawls in the genre. Light-hearted, anachronistic fistfights that flirt with a shoe-horned redundancy are not uncommon in the world of the SW, especially toward the back end of the boom. But the two dust-ups on display here are so forced, heightened and ill-conceived that they surpass an unwelcome inclusion and achieve a certain level of embarrassment. In the first, Dollar fights off a group of townsmen who have the temerity to throw a bottle of his beloved whiskey to the floor. What follows must be seen to be (dis)believed – the term ‘fight’ barely applicable. Amongst other moves, Dollar incongruously karate chops the patrons, distracts them by waving his hat whilst making a bleating sound (Spalla ain’t no Michael Winslow), and even crushes one adversary between his gut and another man’s equally ample stomach. This is all broad, tedious stuff, overplayed to the point of parody, the scene going on (and on) far too long. Mercifully, Shaw turns up to help his freeloading lodger out, and throws a few decent punches, grounding the fight during its dying moments. Woods was always a convincing physical performer – as proficient with his fists as he was in the saddle. ‘A ring-a-ring-o-roses,’ sings Dollar, for no discernible reason, punctuating the scene. As pathetic as this initial brawl is, however, it’s a masterpiece of fight choreography and conviction compared to the one later in the film.<br />
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In the second big fight, Dollar again engages in mass warfare with the patrons of the saloon. What follows might be the worst fight in any spaghetti western. After kicking one of his opponents in the shin, forcing the man to hop around in a state of pained delirium, said offensive move then catches on like wildfire, affecting everybody in the bar like some kind of violent contagion, until some fifty or sixty clueless extras are hopping up and down, howling in forced agony. (Poor Nallo Pazzafini features heavily in this scene, and one can only feel sorry for this great character actor, reduced to cameo status in a worthless capacity.) So contrived is this sequence, so utterly disingenuous and poorly staged, that the viewer might question Brescia’s sanity, let alone his commitment to telling a coherent story. It’s a wretched, inept set piece – no merit or value whatsoever. But, again, such is Brescia’s film. For every solid sequence or moment of conviction, the film seems equally intent on embarrassing itself. This is a shame, as the promise is clearly there – the odd glimpse of sincerity and genuine craft perceptible amidst all the lowbrow interference.<br />
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And so, the film stomps along in heavy boots, subtility and nuance dirty words, with Shaw taking on Taft and his men in classic western style. It’s familiar material, but Brescia repeatedly deviates from good taste, ensuring the film remains compulsively watchable for all the wrong reasons. The nadir of the film might be when Shaw’s proxy bride, Connie, arrives in town, and is hoodwinked into believing that one of Taft’s men is Shaw (the two haven’t laid eyes on each other since childhood, but Shaw feel Rick needs a maternal figure). Not only does this imposter force himself on her in bed, but the poor girl is then passed around the rest of Taft’s goons and gang-raped (off-screen, mercifully). Brescia then continues his assault – on both Connie and viewer – by having her impregnated for her troubles. Then, just when you think the film can’t wallow in any more filth, Connie loses the child via miscarriage. What were Brescia and his screenwriters, Piero Regnoli and Giuseppe Maggi, thinking? How did they confuse heavy drama with such clumsy, repellent nihilism? The spaghetti western was never known for anything approaching an illuminating feminism, true, but rarely did they sink to such ugly, misogynistic depths as in these wretched scenes. They derail the film entirely – tantamount to somebody having spliced snuff footage into a 1930s Rin Tin Tin movie. The immediate fallout hardly fares any better, with Shaw finding out about said atrocity when a barroom of drunken louts emasculates him via song, inferring that his new love is a whore. ‘Now I don’t want her,’ Shaw tells the sheriff (Andrea Fantasia) in response, our supposed hero a paragon of empathy. La Spacconata is a cold, callous film in both milieu and feeling, with little regard for its characters beyond action and reaction, victim or attacker.<br />
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Then there’s the animal violence, rightly a source of much debate nowadays. At one point, Shaw has Whiskey take part in a vicious dogfight for money. This is our hero? Brescia films the dogs in real time, the scene playing out in ugly, protracted fashion until the mauled animals part, bloodied and exhausted. It’s not pretty, but then nothing in La Spacconata is. (Such animal violence is likely the reason why this clutch of White Fang-esque films have never enjoyed a legitimate media release in the UK, where such scenes of animal cruelty are still, to this day, refused a certificate by the BBFC.) All of this on-screen, real-world animal baiting smacks of hypocrisy: Brescia seems as guilty of exploiting his animal performers as Taft does the miners and townsfolk, leaving the viewer with a bad taste in their mouth.<br />
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Despite all these unpleasant detours (or maybe because of them?), the film remains a fascinating watch. La Spacconata is a low-budget film. The paucity of funds gives the film an air of authenticity, however. The town setting feels suitably ramshackle and decrepit, despite the promise of gold and wealth. Stock footage occasionally intrudes, said inserts ill-matched against the feature. At one point late in the film, Shaw and Rick ‘watch’ as a large herd of reindeer migrate en masse. It’s a beautiful sight, but one clearly culled from a years-old wildlife documentary, the deteriorated film stock pocked with countless scratches and marks. Unable to resist an opportunity for casual cruelty, Brescia includes further footage of the herd being attacked by wolves. Shaw and Rick run from the lupine threat, although the film doesn’t have the means to show the pursuing threat. (The print is in pretty rough shape throughout – at one point during the opening, the film stock is so riddled with white static that I wasn’t sure as to whether it was actual print damage, or if somebody had hand-drawn snow onto the film in order to heighten the wintry atmosphere. Turns out it’s the former.)<br />
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In the end, justice prevails. There’s a shootout, a romantic reconciliation and Dollar continues to live on in a blissful alcoholic stupor. No further exploration here is warranted. The only note of interest regarding resolve is when the Captain of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police thanks Shaw for exposing/ending the political corruption in town. What? Was Rick working undercover for the Canadian government from the outset? Or are the Mountie’s merely thanking him for doing their job? Again, multiple viewings have offered no clear or satisfactory explanation. This revelation is as stupid and as pointless as when used in the head-scratching coda of Carlo Lizzani’s otherwise brilliant Un Fiume di dollari/The Hills Run Red (1966). It’s hard to know whether such information is merely throwaway dialogue on the English dub track, or it originated in the script. The opening credits state La Spacconata is based on a novel, Pioneers and Gold-Seekers by one Edgar B. Cooper, but this is likely bullshit. No such source novel seems to have ever been published, at least none that can be found. As most reviews allude to, La Spacconata was likely shot simultaneously with Brescia’s Zanna Bianca e il cacciatore solitano (1975). Both films share the same cast, same crew, same locations; both were produced by Pleiade Films, an outfit seemingly formed for these films only. Of the two, I prefer La Spacconata’s gonzo sensibility.<br />
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Despite the film’s myriad flaws and debilitating signs of cost-cutting, La Spacconata remains a highly watchable film, the jarring tonal imbalance no doubt contributing to the films peculiar appeal. As with most genre cinema, the join-the-dots plotting often proved interchangeable; it was the execution which mattered, and nobody could accuse La Spacconata of being bland or merely average. Tasteless? Yes. Inconsistent? Certainly. But boring it certainly isn’t. On a personal note, I first experienced La Spacconata when it was broadcast on the (now-defunct) UK cable channel Movies4Men some fifteen years ago. That version was heavily censored, omitting much of the animal cruelty. I enjoyed Brescia’s film enough to immediately track down the import German DVD from Carol Films (the source of this review – acceptable PQ, English dubbing). A legitimate soundtrack release of Alessandroni’s score would be most welcome, too; the legendary composer’s music – featuring the maestro’s patented whistling – supports the more oppressive elements of Brescia’s film and is often effortlessly haunting in its cold lyricism.<br />
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Perhaps best viewed as a minor curiosity for completists only, for those less discerning amongst us, or those fans with a penchant for snowbound spaghettis, Brescia’s film retains an unfathomable and dubious charm. If you’ve ever wondered what a Lassie film directed by Lars Von Trier might look like, look no further. La Spacconata might be that that very film.</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Two_Directors_%2B_Two_Climaxes_%3D_Massacre_at_Grand_Canyon&diff=131269Two Directors + Two Climaxes = Massacre at Grand Canyon2022-06-13T20:00:45Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:MaGC Poster.jpg|thumb|center|Massacre at Grand Canyon]]<br />
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'''''“You know my father”'' – Wes (Jim Mitchum)'''<br />
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A lone rider and his horse sit against an azure skyline. The actor playing the cowboy is the son of a Hollywood legend, as the close-up will testify. The same features, instantly recognizable and uncannily redolent of film royalty, but the visage is fresher, unworn, somewhat untested. The handover had begun, the torch passed down from old to new, youth inheriting what the old guard must inevitably surrender to time. Much like father and son, so too the genre. And so, we arrive here, in the early 1960s, on the vast, open expanses of the former Yugoslavia, teetering on the precipice of something special: the birth of the spaghetti western proper. We’re not quite there yet, but here is another vital step on the path toward glory.<br />
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''[[Massacro al Grande Canyon]]/Massacre at Grand Canyon'' (1963) doesn’t get much love. Its reputation – what little exists – rests mainly on the question of authorial signature. Is it Albert Band’s film? Or is ''Massacre'' a Corbucci picture? I don’t think it matters. (Other, far more knowledgeable commentators than myself have speculated tirelessly on this subject, with the general consensus being that this is likely a Corbucci joint. At the risk of playing contrarian, I’m going with Band. Despite the odd Corbucci flourish, Massacre feels far more tonally attuned to ''[[Uomini dal passo pesante, Gli|Gli Uomini dal passo pesante]]/The Tramplers'', Band’s 1965 follow-up, than, say, ''I Crudeli/The [[Hellbenders]]'' or ''Gli Specialisti/The Specialists''.) In this age of renewed accessibility and critical re-evaluation, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' is deserving of a second look. It’s certainly no pantheon entry, nor could it even be described as wholly good, but the film – whoever it belongs to – offers many points of genuine interest and remains a fascinating proto-Spaghetti.<br />
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The prologue means business, the film opening in fine style, as Wes Evans (Jim Mitchum) finally tracks down the Slade brothers, the remaining two killers of his father. The film effectively, then, begins at the end. The climax of an unseen adventure. It’s an interesting doorway into the picture, and begs a couple of interesting questions: Where has Wes been? For how long? What action befell him along the way of his vengeance trail? Why weren’t we privy? Those answers would, no doubt, make for an entertaining prequel. But it’s here – at the end of our hero’s journey – that the viewer is thrown into the picture, and thankfully it’s all action: a man is tossed through a door, ripping it off its hinges. Shots are fired, errant bullets striking objects as gunmen scatter. Men are killed. Some pretty rousing stuff. The opening credits promise much, too. Apart from Big Jim Mitchum, the film has Giorgio Ardisson and the perennially underrated Giacomo Rossi-Stuart in support. A young Andrea Giordani, too. Benito Stefanelli is Master of Arms. Maestro Gianni Ferrio is behind the score. Future Poliziotteschi-wunderkind Stelvio Massi is the camera operator. Rod Dana sings the tolerable theme song. (Dana would later star in his own SW, Tanio Boccia’s 1966 film ''[[Uccidi o muori]]/ Kill or Die''). Would-be ''Trinity''-helmer Enzo Barboni is the DoP. And as per that gorgeous, familiar logo at the opening of the film, ''Massacre'' is a Titanus production, so we know it has some serious money behind it (no factory-line quickie here). As far as recognizable genre talent goes, that’s a damn good line-up by any standard. Against all odds – and contrary to popular opinion – I think the film lives up to that roster, more or less. <br />
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The film begins proper. Band, or Corbucci, and Barboni like to place their camera low and shoot from below, elevating Mitchum to giant status, the actor Tall in the Saddle. Mitchum is dubbed, which is distracting if not disastrous. Those familiar with Mitchum, Jr. and his subsequent B-Movie career will know that not only did he look like dad, but so too did he ''sound'' like the legend. Thus, the applied voice is more ill-fitting than usual (if memory serves, Jim provided his own voice for the English dub track of ''The Tramplers''). Mitchum’s filmography is neither robust nor particularly distinguished, but there’s a few hidden jewels tucked away in there. Standouts include a strong central role in the middling war film ''Ambush Bay'' (1966); headlining the excellent 1976 hick-in-the-city thriller ''Trackdown''; the heroic, beleaguered cop in the grubby exploitation flick ''Blackout'' (1978); and a nicely judged cameo in Monte Hellman’s much-loved ode to car culture, ''Two-Lane Blacktop'' (1971). Best of all is the 1977 bonkers gonzo-thriller ''Ransom'', which – in true spaghetti style – has more alternative titles than it does lines of dialogue (aka. ''Maniac!'' aka. ''Assault in Paradise''). The cast of Richard Compton’s film is as insane as its rambling plot: as well as Mitchum, there’s Oliver Reed, John Ireland, Paul Koslo and Stuart Whitman. It’s well-worth seeking out.<br />
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Having avoided being killed by a gang of gunmen, Wes returns home and meets the one-legged character of Fred (actor unknown – if anybody can identify this performer, please let me know and I will update/amend this article). Hindsight tells us this must be a Corbucci touch, such was the master’s fascination with physical mutilation (although Band would have Mitchum ''become'' the amputee in ''The Tramplers'', with the character of Hoby Cordeen losing an arm, so maybe Band, too, showed equal interest in the real-world cost of heroism). Fred points out a grave dedicated to his missing leg. ''“I brought it back and buried it there,”'' he explains, conjuring one hell of a macabre image, darkly amusing. Crushed hands, scalpings, severed vocal cords, missing limbs (see also Mario Adorf in ''The Specialists'') – how Corbucci loved to maim and mark his characters (if, indeed, this was his scene).<br />
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[[File:Vlcsnap-2016-02-09-14h33m51s635.png]]<br />
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Wes rides back into his hometown. The whole environment convinces. Giuseppe Ranieri’s set design is on-point. Mitchum looks good in the saddle, confident and at ease as he cuts through town. We learn from the town sheriff, Cooly (Rossi-Stuart), that Wes has been gone for two years. The prolific Rossi-Stuart was rarely utilized as a lead, which is a shame. Always a welcome presence in any film, his defining roles might be as the heroic doctor in Bava’s classic Gothic horror ''Operazione paura/ Kill, Baby, Kill'', (1966) and as Vincent Price’s former friend, now vampiric antagonist in ''The Last Man on Earth'' (1964).<br />
We learn that Wes’ sweetheart, Nancy, has married Tully Dancer (Giorgio Ardisson) during his absence. Tully is the meanest member of the Dancer clan, who – in true spaghetti style – are in the midst of a violent range war with the Whitmore family. Both factions want ownership of Red Grass Valley, and Wes will inevitably find himself caught in the crossfire. But, in true screen cowboy fashion, Wes is a former lawman who has had enough of the gun. He wants to be a cattleman. The town Judge and Sheriff try to convince him to pin on the badge once more, but our hero’s newly broken heart forces him to move on. Band and Corbucci’s idea of romance is as twisted and as bitter as their morality; it’s the very best kind of romantic subplot, love just another battlefield to tear a man apart or pock his soul with scars.<br />
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In the next scene, a drunken lout attempts to high-kick Wes in the jaw but is thrown to floor. This triggers an excellent saloon dustup. Mitchum handles the physical stuff convincingly – it’s all him, not a single shot where the actor appears doubled by a stunt man. His subsequent B-Movie career proved a good match for his ragged, cinderblock persona. Wes then retreats to his former home. How many times have we seen the lone cowboy return, his former residence covered in dust and buried beneath a stratum of spider-webbing? But there’s real feeling here, a palpable loneliness backed by Ferrio’s solemn score. In fact, as a whole, the film feels more thoughtful than your average Italian oater. Wes’ confusion and lamentation about having lost both his woman and time supports much of these early scenes and creates the film’s austere backbone. [[Massacro al Grande Canyon]] is a naïvely sombre film, and I find myself drawn to its clichéd conviction, applauding its focus. I know many commentators are ambivalent to this film at best, dismissive at worst, but the film’s acknowledged failings are so well handled by an expert cast and crew that the picture somehow manages to conjure a genuine sincerity, nonetheless. <br />
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[[File:Grancan.jpeg]]<br />
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Confronted by Nancy, the wounded Wes is awkward and snarky. Rightly so, Nancy tears a strip off our hero before the scene slides into rote exposition. Thankfully, Ardisson, as likeably smug as ever, turns up to save the scene from becoming overly saccharine. Ardisson had begun his career in Pepla (including two with Mario Bava: ''Gli invasori/ Erik the Conqouror'' and ''Ercole al centro della Terra/ Hercules in the Haunted World'', both 1961) before flirting tentatively with the European western. He eventually found his metier in the Eurospy filone, and a fistful of decent Gialli. <br />
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Ardisson works for his own wealthy but ailing father, Eric (Eduardo Ciannelli), bedridden as if ravaged by his own material avarice. Cue much boudoir plotting between the Dancer patriarch and his sons. Eric’s condition is unexpected. It’s another nice (Corbucci-esque?) touch. In a scene of encroaching ambush, the director(s) cut back and forth between thunderous hooves on the approach and the silence of the titular canyon and those who wait to attack. These riding scenes are visually exciting, matched by the sight – and sound – of countless rifles being cocked. Good riding sequences often go underappreciated in the western film, I think. We, the fans, tend to take them for granted – it’s just horses running, right? But a perceptive director and talented DoP were often able to capture the taut musculature and driving energy of such movement, convert it successfully to film as visual adrenaline, and such is the case here. Barboni and his young apprentice Massi work wonders here with the horse action.<br />
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The titular massacre which follows is well-crafted and staged with fair elan. (Note that the title is a complete misnomer: there is no Grand Canyon here, only ‘Butte Canyon’, which surely ranks as the funniest piece of tautology since Kirk Morris visited the Scottish village of ‘Loch Lake’ in Riccardo Freda’s ''Maciste all'inferno/Maciste in Hell'' [1962]). The warring factions of Dancer and Whitmore exchange gunfire in an extended, thrilling sequence. Bullets pang off rockface, spitting clouds of dust and debris. Seeking the advantage of high ground, men climb the steep incline and take cover behind jutting stone; for once, there exists some form of logical strategy here, in a genre where many filmmakers were happy to have their actors merely point and shoot. The wounded and dead roll violently down hostile terrain, bodies bouncing with loose shale, the stuntmen fully earning their pay cheques. <br />
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Keen to see an end to the bloodshed, Wes halts the carnage by waving a white flag. He demands Tully take him to his father. There follows an effective moment of suspense, wherein the viewer isn’t sure as to whether Tully will acquiesce or ignore the plea and initiate further gunfire. Dwarfed by the impressive canyon, the men disband like ants. The film makes superb use of those spatial dimensions. <br />
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Looking to establish a modicum of peace, Wes is granted access to the bedridden Eric. They talk whilst Tully rocks in a chair and Giordani (as the younger, more innocent Clay Dancer) stands in the background, looking moody or perplexed. Band fills the frame well, positioning his actors with an obvious and effective specificity. Wes formulates a plan, looking to take Clay hostage. Mitchum’s character is no mere gun thug; he’s a tactician, forever one-move ahead of the other characters. Mitchum has often been criticised for his underplaying, those sleepy eyes giving nothing away with regard to contained emotion, but that laconic impassivity suites the character of Wes here. When Ardisson’s men threaten him, Wes remains unphased; their guns have nothing against his unflappable cool. But if our hero’s weapon is his brain, then Eric opts to fight via money, his weapon of choice being his chequebook. The senior Dancer is even willing to sacrifice his youngest son in order to reach his objective. Violence, intellect and commerce: viable threats, all.<br />
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[[File:MassacreAtGrandCanyon DatabasePage.jpg|right]]<br />
Back at the sheriff’s office, Cooley is cleaning his dismantled pistol. He appears to have spent an equal amount of time feathering his trademark blonde pompadour, too. Wes talks again of his father, and – once again – the viewer can’t help but think of the actor’s real-world connection. Was this by design? Did the screenwriters mean to conjure the memory of Jim’s more famous father in an effort to tie their film to its more legitimate lineage? Probably not, but it’s a fascinating and singular thing to ponder. <br />
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Next scene, and Mitchum beats the shit out of a lackey. He pummels the poor bastard into submission and then carries him to the Sheriff’s office. They bind him and gag him, and then the film does something rather technically remarkable. Band – or Corbucci, or whoever – and Barboni have the camera lift off Mitchum’s captive and concentrate on the stone wall of the cell. The camera then climbs the wall, all rippling grey rock, until we meet a twilight skyline, the scene having transitioned seamlessly from cell to canyon wall in a moment of imaginative transition. One suspects the hand of Massi here. It’s a minor visual indicator, nothing flash, but it works wonderfully. Sometimes derided for their cookie-cutter manufacture, the spaghetti western was always able to surprise on a technical level, depending on who was behind the film.<br />
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By this point the plot is needlessly convoluted. There are so many factions looking to deceive that the tangled narrative threatens to confuse. Nancy is almost raped, but Mitchum arrives and beats the villain into an unconscious state before carrying him off. This is the second time we’ve seen Wes carrying a man over his shoulder, and this time it almost raises a smile. Is he stockpiling his enemies, removing them from the equation one-by-one? The answer, it would seem, is yes: moments later, we are shown three men tied and gaged in the jail cell. <br />
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The film lands at its climax. Wes and Sheriff Cooley are pinned down in the lawman’s office. It’s a classic siege showdown. The armament of both factions is clear and forceful: Ardisson and his men have pistols, whilst our heroes are brandishing Winchesters. There’s an excellent close-up of Mitchum, face in profile as he presses his body up against the wall, peering out through a barred window, the frame split in two, a bravura display of depth perception. Crouching low, Cooley takes up a pistol in each hand and begins to fire alternately, going all John Woo some twenty-odd years before John Woo became a cultural short-hand for creative cinematic gunplay. The door to the sheriff’s office opens, revealing nothing but smoky darkness and an eery stillness worthy of a Hammer horror. This is all good stuff – atmospheric and suitably grim. The gang approach the law office in unison, convinced they have killed everybody inside. Again, Band places his villains well within his shot, making good use of the Panoramico frame.<br />
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Cooley is shot and killed. Wes stands over the body of his fallen friend, the melancholy skyline behind him an expansive, mournful blue, the shot seemingly captured during the so-called magic hour. ''Massacre'' really is a beautifully photographed film. ''‘He was a brave man,’'' says the mayor as the townsfolk congregate. A concise yet accurate sentiment, as good as any eulogy. Mitchum crouches low over the body, his grief understated but plain. ''‘The only one in this town,’'' he replies. This is a welcome scene; too often in many spaghetti westerns, the death of a key character is simply washed over or ignored, as if such a narrative turn should only be seen, not felt. Band does well to not only include this moment of genuine pathos, but to highlight it so remarkably with that mournful dawn canvas, all of it played out in a single shot, as if the filmmakers knew they might lose the light at any given second. It’s a brilliant sequence, as exciting as any moment of action rendered in the film. <br />
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There is more gunplay back at the canyon, but this feels slightly superfluous. It looks suspiciously like it was shot at the very same time as the earlier massacre. It plays too familiar; we’ve seen this locale before, with near-identical action, so why repeat it? Luckily, Band intercuts this with Wes leading a charge with his incoming rescue. Wes and Tully fire at each other, their horses turning stressfully at all the noise and conflict. There’s a terrific dummy death, as one of the men plummets to his death from atop a butte. Band’s keen eye to detail extends to Wes as marksman. Wes takes great care with a couple of shots, lining his pistol carefully against his intended target before pulling the trigger. Again, this plays much better than merely having your actor point and shoot in the general direction of the enemy. Mitchum and Ardisson glower at each other for a couple of seconds before Tully takes off and Wes gives chase. The scale here is impressive. The frame is packed with some fifty, sixty men, reminding the viewer that Massacre has a fair budget at its disposal.<br />
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[[File:Mass1.jpg]]<br />
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''[[Massacro al Grande Canyon]]'' is also a film of small yet impressive invention. Take that final chase. Not content to merely cut back-and-forth between trampling hooves, the director has Ardisson drag a sagebrush ball of fire behind his horse, setting flame to the land as he rides, no doubt hoping to slow the gaining Wes. As noted before but worth repeating here, Mitchum Jr. appears to be an excellent rider. Thrown from his wounded horse, Wes is saved from execution by Fred, the one-legged war veteran. Even in victory, Mitchum looks non-plussed. The film’s coda sees Clay Dancer about to be hung in front of his ailing father. Wes intervenes, carrying the body of Ardisson, one dead son substituting another (‘The right son’, say Wes). Clay is released, escorting his grieving, frail father back to the homestead. Wes tells the now-widowed Nancy that he is staying in town, and that he will be donning the sheriff’s badge once more. Dubiously, the film seems to suggest that, with his broken heart now mended, Wes is happy to return to a life of violence. I guess a man craves corporeal balance; the heart and flesh are both capable of inflicting terrible pain, but, ideally, at least in the wild, wild world of the spaghetti western, never at the same time. <br />
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This is the second climax of the film for Wes, following the opening, and the least satisfying of the two. At the end of his earlier vengeance cycle, he emerged tired, lost, without incentive. This second point of closure is more traditional: having slaughtered the villains and seen justice prevail, Wes is reunited with his true love and has been reintegrated successfully back into society, the tin star repositioning him as integral cog within the fragile machinations of community. He is no longer the bitter, lone gunfighter. That’s a shame. The best spaghetti westerns retained their cynicism to the final frame, rightly dubious of the so-called ‘happy ending’. Another point, Band. Corbucci, the eternal pessimist, knew that the end for his heroes meant uncertainty and penance, the scarring of the physical and the psyche alike. If – of course – they were (un)lucky enough to survive. <br />
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Obviously, this article stands as a positive reappraisal. Yes, the film often feels like a rigid facsimile of the standard American western, but I think we, as fans, must get past the notion of that being a bad thing. The early aping of the American western by the European filmmakers should be celebrated, surely? The films that came prior to ''Fistful''’s artistic influence – and enviable profit incentive – were often high-risk anomalies, shot by directors like The Marchent’s and Mario Caiano who demonstrated a clear affinity for the genre, and whose films were – I would argue – much more lovingly produced than most which merely fell off the factory-line conveyor built after the zeitgeist had begun proper. <br />
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Massacre also feels like the first part of a minor, unacknowledged trifecta of films linked by key talent. As we have discussed, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' is a work credited to Albert Band and Sergio Corbucci, ratio unknown. It stars James Mitchum in the lead role. Band would go onto direct ''The Tramplers'', an excellent adaptation of ''Guns of North Texas'' by Will Cook. ''Guns of North Texas'' is a solid little 1958 pulp paperback western, fast and extremely enjoyable. The film adaptation is a literal translation from novel to screen, much dialogue included. It works – the film is something of a rough gem and remains massively underappreciated. Band’s film stars Joseph Cotton as a deranged Southern patriarch looking to rebuild the South in the wake of the American civil war. It co-stars Gordon Scott, Franco Nero and one Jim Mitchum. One can only assume that Band enjoyed working with Mitchum, Jr. on ''Massacre'' to have him star in his following picture. Corbucci, meanwhile, would go on to director ''The Hellbenders''. That 1966 picture is slowly encroaching on masterpiece territory, worthy of discussion alongside Corbucci’s more well-known classics. It stars – and stop me if you’ve heard this one before – Joseph Cotton as a deranged Southern patriarch looking to reconstitute the South in the wake of the American civil war. But whereas The ''Tramplers'' was a recognizable American western in Euro-dress, ''The Hellbenders'' is 100% pure Corbucci, uncut. Dark, disturbing and cruelly hilarious, ''The Hellbenders'' is more evocative of Tobe Hooper’s original ''Texas Chainsaw Massacre'' (1974) than any traditional western, what with its focus on a psychotic family’s murderous collusion and grasping need to control. ''The Hellbenders'' is fucking insane, grimly delirious, and I only see its reputation growing more steadily in the coming years. So, the key personnel behind ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' would splinter off and create two excellent (albeit tonally divergent yet thematically identical) Italian Westerns in ''The Tramplers'' and ''The Hellbenders''. If said lineage is perhaps too tenuous to form a loose, unofficial trilogy of sorts, then those three pictures at least make for a fine triple-feature and remain inextricably linked in this viewer’s mind.<br />
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[[File:Vlcsnap-2016-02-09-18h20m26s361.png]]<br />
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Gianni Ferrio’s score is a tough nut to crack. It’s not bad – on the contrary, some of the more melancholy cues are remarkably effective – but for the most part it feels ill-judged. Too jaunty, too upbeat, just too wrong for what’s unfolding on screen. Ferrio was a superb composer and contributed many of the finest scores to some of the most interesting spaghetti westerns, but this doesn’t rank amongst his best work. (At the risk of pissing off many hardcore fans, I must confess that, much as I love Morricone’s trendsetting work within the genre, I feel other composers ultimately surpassed him with regard to becoming integral to the spaghetti western experience as a whole: Ferrio, the brilliant Francesco De Masi, Bacalov, Riz Ortolani, A.F. Lavagnino, Carlo Savina, Carlo Rustichelli, the prolific Stelvio Cipriani and the superb Piero Piccioni to name but a few – but that’s a whole other opinion piece.) Last released by GDM on a 24-track CD, Ferrio’s ''Massacre'' score struggles to play cohesively beyond the parameters of the film it accompanies. <br />
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Finally, that phenomenal poster art. The gunfighter’s stance, pistol aimed, gun-belt all loose and casual, death splayed out through the centre of those poised legs, the chaos of war rendered live in the background: all classic motifs of the genre, distilled into one perfect piece of pulp advertising. If the film itself doesn’t come as close to capturing all that is great about the European western, ''[[Massacro al Grand Canyon]]'' might – at the very least – be a better spaghetti western than most remember. <br />
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'''Note: This article is based on a print currently [https://amzn.to/39iLSjd available for streaming on Amazon Prime UK]. The (restored?) picture quality is excellent, far surpassing the much-loved Koch and Wild East DVD versions. Said version retains its original Panoramico aspect ratio of 1:85:1.'''<br />
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{{DGBell}}<br />
[[Category:Articles]][[Category:Reviews]]</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Two_Directors_%2B_Two_Climaxes_%3D_Massacre_at_Grand_Canyon&diff=131220Two Directors + Two Climaxes = Massacre at Grand Canyon2022-06-12T15:01:49Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:MaGC Poster.jpg|thumb|center]]<br />
<br />
'''''“You know my father”'' – Wes (Jim Mitchum)'''<br />
<br />
A lone rider and his horse sit against an azure skyline. The actor playing the cowboy is the son of a Hollywood legend, as the close-up will testify. The same features, instantly recognizable and uncannily redolent of film royalty, but the visage is fresher, unworn, somewhat untested. The handover had begun, the torch passed down from old to new, youth inheriting what the old guard must inevitably surrender to time. Much like father and son, so too the genre. And so, we arrive here, in the early 1960s, on the vast, open expanses of the former Yugoslavia, teetering on the precipice of something special: the birth of the spaghetti western proper. We’re not quite there yet, but here is another vital step on the path toward glory.<br />
<br />
''Massacro al Grande Canyon/Massacre at Grand Canyon'' (1963) doesn’t get much love. Its reputation – what little exists – rests mainly on the question of authorial signature. Is it Albert Band’s film? Or is ''Massacre'' a Corbucci picture? I don’t think it matters. (Other, far more knowledgeable commentators than myself have speculated tirelessly on this subject, with the general consensus being that this is likely a Corbucci joint. At the risk of playing contrarian, I’m going with Band. Despite the odd Corbucci flourish, Massacre feels far more tonally attuned to ''Gli Uomini dal passo pesante/The Tramplers'', Band’s 1965 follow-up, than, say, ''I Crudeli/The [[Hellbenders]]'' or ''Gli Specialisti/The Specialists''.) In this age of renewed accessibility and critical re-evaluation, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' is deserving of a second look. It’s certainly no pantheon entry, nor could it even be described as wholly good, but the film – whoever it belongs to – offers many points of genuine interest and remains a fascinating proto-Spaghetti.<br />
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The prologue means business, the film opening in fine style, as Wes Evans (Jim Mitchum) finally tracks down the Slade brothers, the remaining two killers of his father. The film effectively, then, begins at the end. The climax of an unseen adventure. It’s an interesting doorway into the picture, and begs a couple of interesting questions: Where has Wes been? For how long? What action befell him along the way of his vengeance trail? Why weren’t we privy? Those answers would, no doubt, make for an entertaining prequel. But it’s here – at the end of our hero’s journey – that the viewer is thrown into the picture, and thankfully it’s all action: a man is tossed through a door, ripping it off its hinges. Shots are fired, errant bullets striking objects as gunmen scatter. Men are killed. Some pretty rousing stuff. The opening credits promise much, too. Apart from Big Jim Mitchum, the film has Giorgio Ardisson and the perennially underrated Giacomo Rossi-Stuart in support. A young Andrea Giordani, too. Benito Stefanelli is Master of Arms. Maestro Gianni Ferrio is behind the score. Future Poliziotteschi-wunderkind Stelvio Massi is the camera operator. Rod Dana sings the tolerable theme song. (Dana would later star in his own SW, Tanio Boccia’s 1966 film ''[[Uccidi o muori]]/ Kill or Die''). Would-be ''Trinity''-helmer Enzo Barboni is the DoP. And as per that gorgeous, familiar logo at the opening of the film, ''Massacre'' is a Titanus production, so we know it has some serious money behind it (no factory-line quickie here). As far as recognizable genre talent goes, that’s a damn good line-up by any standard. Against all odds – and contrary to popular opinion – I think the film lives up to that roster, more or less. <br />
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The film begins proper. Band, or Corbucci, and Barboni like to place their camera low and shoot from below, elevating Mitchum to giant status, the actor Tall in the Saddle. Mitchum is dubbed, which is distracting if not disastrous. Those familiar with Mitchum, Jr. and his subsequent B-Movie career will know that not only did he look like dad, but so too did he ''sound'' like the legend. Thus, the applied voice is more ill-fitting than usual (if memory serves, Jim provided his own voice for the English dub track of ''The Tramplers''). Mitchum’s filmography is neither robust nor particularly distinguished, but there’s a few hidden jewels tucked away in there. Standouts include a strong central role in the middling war film ''Ambush Bay'' (1966); headlining the excellent 1976 hick-in-the-city thriller ''Trackdown''; the heroic, beleaguered cop in the grubby exploitation flick ''Blackout'' (1978); and a nicely judged cameo in Monte Hellman’s much-loved ode to car culture, ''Two-Lane Blacktop'' (1971). Best of all is the 1977 bonkers gonzo-thriller ''Ransom'', which – in true spaghetti style – has more alternative titles than it does lines of dialogue (aka. ''Maniac!'' aka. ''Assault in Paradise''). The cast of Richard Compton’s film is as insane as its rambling plot: as well as Mitchum, there’s Oliver Reed, John Ireland, Paul Koslo and Stuart Whitman. It’s well-worth seeking out.<br />
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Having avoided being killed by a gang of gunmen, Wes returns home and meets the one-legged character of Fred (actor unknown – if anybody can identify this performer, please let me know and I will update/amend this article). Hindsight tells us this must be a Corbucci touch, such was the master’s fascination with physical mutilation (although Band would have Mitchum ''become'' the amputee in ''The Tramplers'', with the character of Hoby Cordeen losing an arm, so maybe Band, too, showed equal interest in the real-world cost of heroism). Fred points out a grave dedicated to his missing leg. ''“I brought it back and buried it there,”'' he explains, conjuring one hell of a macabre image, darkly amusing. Crushed hands, scalpings, severed vocal cords, missing limbs (see also Mario Adorf in ''The Specialists'') – how Corbucci loved to maim and mark his characters (if, indeed, this was his scene).<br />
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Wes rides back into his hometown. The whole environment convinces. Giuseppe Ranieri’s set design is on-point. Mitchum looks good in the saddle, confident and at ease as he cuts through town. We learn from the town sheriff, Cooly (Rossi-Stuart), that Wes has been gone for two years. The prolific Rossi-Stuart was rarely utilized as a lead, which is a shame. Always a welcome presence in any film, his defining roles might be as the heroic doctor in Bava’s classic Gothic horror ''Operazione paura/ Kill, Baby, Kill'', (1966) and as Vincent Price’s former friend, now vampiric antagonist in ''The Last Man on Earth'' (1964).<br />
We learn that Wes’ sweetheart, Nancy, has married Tully Dancer (Giorgio Ardisson) during his absence. Tully is the meanest member of the Dancer clan, who – in true spaghetti style – are in the midst of a violent range war with the Whitmore family. Both factions want ownership of Red Grass Valley, and Wes will inevitably find himself caught in the crossfire. But, in true screen cowboy fashion, Wes is a former lawman who has had enough of the gun. He wants to be a cattleman. The town Judge and Sheriff try to convince him to pin on the badge once more, but our hero’s newly broken heart forces him to move on. Band and Corbucci’s idea of romance is as twisted and as bitter as their morality; it’s the very best kind of romantic subplot, love just another battlefield to tear a man apart or pock his soul with scars.<br />
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In the next scene, a drunken lout attempts to high-kick Wes in the jaw but is thrown to floor. This triggers an excellent saloon dustup. Mitchum handles the physical stuff convincingly – it’s all him, not a single shot where the actor appears doubled by a stunt man. His subsequent B-Movie career proved a good match for his ragged, cinderblock persona. Wes then retreats to his former home. How many times have we seen the lone cowboy return, his former residence covered in dust and buried beneath a stratum of spider-webbing? But there’s real feeling here, a palpable loneliness backed by Ferrio’s solemn score. In fact, as a whole, the film feels more thoughtful than your average Italian oater. Wes’ confusion and lamentation about having lost both his woman and time supports much of these early scenes and creates the film’s austere backbone. Massacre is a naïvely sombre film, and I find myself drawn to its clichéd conviction, applauding its focus. I know many commentators are ambivalent to this film at best, dismissive at worst, but the film’s acknowledged failings are so well handled by an expert cast and crew that the picture somehow manages to conjure a genuine sincerity, nonetheless. <br />
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Confronted by Nancy, the wounded Wes is awkward and snarky. Rightly so, Nancy tears a strip off our hero before the scene slides into rote exposition. Thankfully, Ardisson, as likeably smug as ever, turns up to save the scene from becoming overly saccharine. Ardisson had begun his career in Pepla (including two with Mario Bava: ''Gli invasori/ Erik the Conqouror'' and ''Ercole al centro della Terra/ Hercules in the Haunted World'', both 1961) before flirting tentatively with the European western. He eventually found his metier in the Eurospy filone, and a fistful of decent Gialli. <br />
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Ardisson works for his own wealthy but ailing father, Eric (Eduardo Ciannelli), bedridden as if ravaged by his own material avarice. Cue much boudoir plotting between the Dancer patriarch and his sons. Eric’s condition is unexpected. It’s another nice (Corbucci-esque?) touch. In a scene of encroaching ambush, the director(s) cut back and forth between thunderous hooves on the approach and the silence of the titular canyon and those who wait to attack. These riding scenes are visually exciting, matched by the sight – and sound – of countless rifles being cocked. Good riding sequences often go underappreciated in the western film, I think. We, the fans, tend to take them for granted – it’s just horses running, right? But a perceptive director and talented DoP were often able to capture the taut musculature and driving energy of such movement, convert it successfully to film as visual adrenaline, and such is the case here. Barboni and his young apprentice Massi work wonders here with the horse action.<br />
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The titular massacre which follows is well-crafted and staged with fair elan. (Note that the title is a complete misnomer: there is no Grand Canyon here, only ‘Butte Canyon’, which surely ranks as the funniest piece of tautology since Kirk Morris visited the Scottish village of ‘Loch Lake’ in Riccardo Freda’s ''Maciste all'inferno/Maciste in Hell'' [1962]). The warring factions of Dancer and Whitmore exchange gunfire in an extended, thrilling sequence. Bullets pang off rockface, spitting clouds of dust and debris. Seeking the advantage of high ground, men climb the steep incline and take cover behind jutting stone; for once, there exists some form of logical strategy here, in a genre where many filmmakers were happy to have their actors merely point and shoot. The wounded and dead roll violently down hostile terrain, bodies bouncing with loose shale, the stuntmen fully earning their pay cheques. <br />
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Keen to see an end to the bloodshed, Wes halts the carnage by waving a white flag. He demands Tully take him to his father. There follows an effective moment of suspense, wherein the viewer isn’t sure as to whether Tully will acquiesce or ignore the plea and initiate further gunfire. Dwarfed by the impressive canyon, the men disband like ants. The film makes superb use of those spatial dimensions. <br />
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Looking to establish a modicum of peace, Wes is granted access to the bedridden Eric. They talk whilst Tully rocks in a chair and Giordani (as the younger, more innocent Clay Dancer) stands in the background, looking moody or perplexed. Band fills the frame well, positioning his actors with an obvious and effective specificity. Wes formulates a plan, looking to take Clay hostage. Mitchum’s character is no mere gun thug; he’s a tactician, forever one-move ahead of the other characters. Mitchum has often been criticised for his underplaying, those sleepy eyes giving nothing away with regard to contained emotion, but that laconic impassivity suites the character of Wes here. When Ardisson’s men threaten him, Wes remains unphased; their guns have nothing against his unflappable cool. But if our hero’s weapon is his brain, then Eric opts to fight via money, his weapon of choice being his chequebook. The senior Dancer is even willing to sacrifice his youngest son in order to reach his objective. Violence, intellect and commerce: viable threats, all.<br />
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Back at the sheriff’s office, Cooley is cleaning his dismantled pistol. He appears to have spent an equal amount of time feathering his trademark blonde pompadour, too. Wes talks again of his father, and – once again – the viewer can’t help but think of the actor’s real-world connection. Was this by design? Did the screenwriters mean to conjure the memory of Jim’s more famous father in an effort to tie their film to its more legitimate lineage? Probably not, but it’s a fascinating and singular thing to ponder. <br />
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Next scene, and Mitchum beats the shit out of a lackey. He pummels the poor bastard into submission and then carries him to the Sheriff’s office. They bind him and gag him, and then the film does something rather technically remarkable. Band – or Corbucci, or whoever – and Barboni have the camera lift off Mitchum’s captive and concentrate on the stone wall of the cell. The camera then climbs the wall, all rippling grey rock, until we meet a twilight skyline, the scene having transitioned seamlessly from cell to canyon wall in a moment of imaginative transition. One suspects the hand of Massi here. It’s a minor visual indicator, nothing flash, but it works wonderfully. Sometimes derided for their cookie-cutter manufacture, the spaghetti western was always able to surprise on a technical level, depending on who was behind the film.<br />
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By this point the plot is needlessly convoluted. There are so many factions looking to deceive that the tangled narrative threatens to confuse. Nancy is almost raped, but Mitchum arrives and beats the villain into an unconscious state before carrying him off. This is the second time we’ve seen Wes carrying a man over his shoulder, and this time it almost raises a smile. Is he stockpiling his enemies, removing them from the equation one-by-one? The answer, it would seem, is yes: moments later, we are shown three men tied and gaged in the jail cell. <br />
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The film lands at its climax. Wes and Sheriff Cooley are pinned down in the lawman’s office. It’s a classic siege showdown. The armament of both factions is clear and forceful: Ardisson and his men have pistols, whilst our heroes are brandishing Winchesters. There’s an excellent close-up of Mitchum, face in profile as he presses his body up against the wall, peering out through a barred window, the frame split in two, a bravura display of depth perception. Crouching low, Cooley takes up a pistol in each hand and begins to fire alternately, going all John Woo some twenty-odd years before John Woo became a cultural short-hand for creative cinematic gunplay. The door to the sheriff’s office opens, revealing nothing but smoky darkness and an eery stillness worthy of a Hammer horror. This is all good stuff – atmospheric and suitably grim. The gang approach the law office in unison, convinced they have killed everybody inside. Again, Band places his villains well within his shot, making good use of the Panoramico frame.<br />
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Cooley is shot and killed. Wes stands over the body of his fallen friend, the melancholy skyline behind him an expansive, mournful blue, the shot seemingly captured during the so-called magic hour. ''Massacre'' really is a beautifully photographed film. ''‘He was a brave man,’'' says the mayor as the townsfolk congregate. A concise yet accurate sentiment, as good as any eulogy. Mitchum crouches low over the body, his grief understated but plain. ''‘The only one in this town,’'' he replies. This is a welcome scene; too often in many spaghetti westerns, the death of a key character is simply washed over or ignored, as if such a narrative turn should only be seen, not felt. Band does well to not only include this moment of genuine pathos, but to highlight it so remarkably with that mournful dawn canvas, all of it played out in a single shot, as if the filmmakers knew they might lose the light at any given second. It’s a brilliant sequence, as exciting as any moment of action rendered in the film. <br />
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There is more gunplay back at the canyon, but this feels slightly superfluous. It looks suspiciously like it was shot at the very same time as the earlier massacre. It plays too familiar; we’ve seen this locale before, with near-identical action, so why repeat it? Luckily, Band intercuts this with Wes leading a charge with his incoming rescue. Wes and Tully fire at each other, their horses turning stressfully at all the noise and conflict. There’s a terrific dummy death, as one of the men plummets to his death from atop a butte. Band’s keen eye to detail extends to Wes as marksman. Wes takes great care with a couple of shots, lining his pistol carefully against his intended target before pulling the trigger. Again, this plays much better than merely having your actor point and shoot in the general direction of the enemy. Mitchum and Ardisson glower at each other for a couple of seconds before Tully takes off and Wes gives chase. The scale here is impressive. The frame is packed with some fifty, sixty men, reminding the viewer that Massacre has a fair budget at its disposal.<br />
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''Massacre'' is also a film of small yet impressive invention. Take that final chase. Not content to merely cut back-and-forth between trampling hooves, the director has Ardisson drag a sagebrush ball of fire behind his horse, setting flame to the land as he rides, no doubt hoping to slow the gaining Wes. As noted before but worth repeating here, Mitchum Jr. appears to be an excellent rider. Thrown from his wounded horse, Wes is saved from execution by Fred, the one-legged war veteran. Even in victory, Mitchum looks non-plussed. The film’s coda sees Clay Dancer about to be hung in front of his ailing father. Wes intervenes, carrying the body of Ardisson, one dead son substituting another (‘The right son’, say Wes). Clay is released, escorting his grieving, frail father back to the homestead. Wes tells the now-widowed Nancy that he is staying in town, and that he will be donning the sheriff’s badge once more. Dubiously, the films seems to suggest that, with his broken heart now mended, Wes is happy to return to a life of violence. I guess a man craves corporeal balance; the heart and flesh are both capable of inflicting terrible pain, but, ideally, at least in the wild, wild world of the spaghetti western, never at the same time. <br />
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This is the second climax of the film for Wes, following the opening, and the least satisfying of the two. At the end of his earlier vengeance cycle, he emerged tired, lost, without incentive. This second point of closure is more traditional: having slaughtered the villains and seen justice prevail, Wes is reunited with his true love and has been reintegrated successfully back into society, the tin star repositioning him as integral cog within the fragile machinations of community. He is no longer the bitter, lone gunfighter. That’s a shame. The best spaghetti westerns retained their cynicism to the final frame, rightly dubious of the so-called ‘happy ending’. Another point, Band. Corbucci, the eternal pessimist, knew that the end for his heroes meant uncertainty and penance, the scarring of the physical and the psyche alike. If – of course – they were (un)lucky enough to survive. <br />
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Obviously, this article stands as a positive reappraisal. Yes, the film often feels like a rigid facsimile of the standard American western, but I think we, as fans, must get past the notion of that being a bad thing. The early aping of the American western by the European filmmakers should be celebrated, surely? The films that came prior to ''Fistful''’s artistic influence – and enviable profit incentive – were often high-risk anomalies, shot by directors like The Marchent’s and Mario Caiano who demonstrated a clear affinity for the genre, and whose films were – I would argue – much more lovingly produced than most which merely fell off the factory-line conveyor built after the zeitgeist had begun proper. <br />
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Massacre also feels like the first part of a minor, unacknowledged trifecta of films linked by key talent. As we have discussed, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' is a work credited to Albert Band and Sergio Corbucci, ratio unknown. It stars James Mitchum in the lead role. Band would go onto direct ''The Tramplers'', an excellent adaptation of ''Guns of North Texas'' by Will Cook. ''Guns of North Texas'' is a solid little 1958 pulp paperback western, fast and extremely enjoyable. The film adaptation is a literal translation from novel to screen, much dialogue included. It works – the film is something of a rough gem and remains massively underappreciated. Band’s film stars Joseph Cotton as a deranged Southern patriarch looking to rebuild the South in the wake of the American civil war. It co-stars Gordon Scott, Franco Nero and one Jim Mitchum. One can only assume that Band enjoyed working with Mitchum, Jr. on ''Massacre'' to have him star in his following picture. Corbucci, meanwhile, would go on to director ''The Hellbenders''. That 1966 picture is slowly encroaching on masterpiece territory, worthy of discussion alongside Corbucci’s more well-known classics. It stars – and stop me if you’ve heard this one before – Joseph Cotton as a deranged Southern patriarch looking to reconstitute the South in the wake of the American civil war. But whereas The ''Tramplers'' was a recognizable American western in Euro-dress, ''The Hellbenders'' is 100% pure Corbucci, uncut. Dark, disturbing and cruelly hilarious, ''The Hellbenders'' is more evocative of Tobe Hooper’s original ''Texas Chainsaw Massacre'' (1974) than any traditional western, what with its focus on a psychotic family’s murderous collusion and grasping need to control. ''The Hellbenders'' is fucking insane, grimly delirious, and I only see its reputation growing more steadily in the coming years. So, the key personnel behind ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' would splinter off and create two excellent (albeit tonally divergent yet thematically identical) Italian Westerns in ''The Tramplers'' and ''The Hellbenders''. If said lineage is perhaps too tenuous to form a loose, unofficial trilogy of sorts, then those three pictures at least make for a fine triple-feature and remain inextricably linked in this viewer’s mind.<br />
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Gianni Ferrio’s score is a tough nut to crack. It’s not bad – on the contrary, some of the more melancholy cues are remarkably effective – but for the most part it feels ill-judged. Too jaunty, too upbeat, just too wrong for what’s unfolding on screen. Ferrio was a superb composer and contributed many of the finest scores to some of the most interesting spaghetti westerns, but this doesn’t rank amongst his best work. (At the risk of pissing off many hardcore fans, I must confess that, much as I love Morricone’s trendsetting work within the genre, I feel other composers ultimately surpassed him with regard to becoming integral to the spaghetti western experience as a whole: Ferrio, the brilliant Francesco De Masi, Bacalov, Riz Ortolani, A.F. Lavagnino, Carlo Savina, Carlo Rustichelli, the prolific Stelvio Cipriani and the superb Piero Piccioni to name but a few – but that’s a whole other opinion piece.) Last released by GDM on a 24-track CD, Ferrio’s ''Massacre'' score struggles to play cohesively beyond the parameters of the film it accompanies. <br />
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Finally, that phenomenal poster art. The gunfighter’s stance, pistol aimed, gun-belt all loose and casual, death splayed out through the centre of those poised legs, the chaos of war rendered live in the background: all classic motifs of the genre, distilled into one perfect piece of pulp advertising. If the film itself doesn’t come as close to capturing all that is great about the European western, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' might – at the very least – be a better spaghetti western than most remember. <br />
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'''Note: This article is based on a print currently available for streaming on Amazon Prime UK. The (restored?) picture quality is excellent, far surpassing the much-loved Koch and Wild East DVD versions. Said version retains its original Panoramico aspect ratio of 1:85:1.'''</div>DGBellhttps://www.spaghetti-western.net/index.php?title=Two_Directors_%2B_Two_Climaxes_%3D_Massacre_at_Grand_Canyon&diff=131219Two Directors + Two Climaxes = Massacre at Grand Canyon2022-06-12T15:00:26Z<p>DGBell: </p>
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<div>[[File:MaGC Poster|thumb]]<br />
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'''''“You know my father”'' – Wes (Jim Mitchum)'''<br />
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A lone rider and his horse sit against an azure skyline. The actor playing the cowboy is the son of a Hollywood legend, as the close-up will testify. The same features, instantly recognizable and uncannily redolent of film royalty, but the visage is fresher, unworn, somewhat untested. The handover had begun, the torch passed down from old to new, youth inheriting what the old guard must inevitably surrender to time. Much like father and son, so too the genre. And so, we arrive here, in the early 1960s, on the vast, open expanses of the former Yugoslavia, teetering on the precipice of something special: the birth of the spaghetti western proper. We’re not quite there yet, but here is another vital step on the path toward glory.<br />
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''Massacro al Grande Canyon/Massacre at Grand Canyon'' (1963) doesn’t get much love. Its reputation – what little exists – rests mainly on the question of authorial signature. Is it Albert Band’s film? Or is ''Massacre'' a Corbucci picture? I don’t think it matters. (Other, far more knowledgeable commentators than myself have speculated tirelessly on this subject, with the general consensus being that this is likely a Corbucci joint. At the risk of playing contrarian, I’m going with Band. Despite the odd Corbucci flourish, Massacre feels far more tonally attuned to ''Gli Uomini dal passo pesante/The Tramplers'', Band’s 1965 follow-up, than, say, ''I Crudeli/The [[Hellbenders]]'' or ''Gli Specialisti/The Specialists''.) In this age of renewed accessibility and critical re-evaluation, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' is deserving of a second look. It’s certainly no pantheon entry, nor could it even be described as wholly good, but the film – whoever it belongs to – offers many points of genuine interest and remains a fascinating proto-Spaghetti.<br />
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The prologue means business, the film opening in fine style, as Wes Evans (Jim Mitchum) finally tracks down the Slade brothers, the remaining two killers of his father. The film effectively, then, begins at the end. The climax of an unseen adventure. It’s an interesting doorway into the picture, and begs a couple of interesting questions: Where has Wes been? For how long? What action befell him along the way of his vengeance trail? Why weren’t we privy? Those answers would, no doubt, make for an entertaining prequel. But it’s here – at the end of our hero’s journey – that the viewer is thrown into the picture, and thankfully it’s all action: a man is tossed through a door, ripping it off its hinges. Shots are fired, errant bullets striking objects as gunmen scatter. Men are killed. Some pretty rousing stuff. The opening credits promise much, too. Apart from Big Jim Mitchum, the film has Giorgio Ardisson and the perennially underrated Giacomo Rossi-Stuart in support. A young Andrea Giordani, too. Benito Stefanelli is Master of Arms. Maestro Gianni Ferrio is behind the score. Future Poliziotteschi-wunderkind Stelvio Massi is the camera operator. Rod Dana sings the tolerable theme song. (Dana would later star in his own SW, Tanio Boccia’s 1966 film ''[[Uccidi o muori]]/ Kill or Die''). Would-be ''Trinity''-helmer Enzo Barboni is the DoP. And as per that gorgeous, familiar logo at the opening of the film, ''Massacre'' is a Titanus production, so we know it has some serious money behind it (no factory-line quickie here). As far as recognizable genre talent goes, that’s a damn good line-up by any standard. Against all odds – and contrary to popular opinion – I think the film lives up to that roster, more or less. <br />
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The film begins proper. Band, or Corbucci, and Barboni like to place their camera low and shoot from below, elevating Mitchum to giant status, the actor Tall in the Saddle. Mitchum is dubbed, which is distracting if not disastrous. Those familiar with Mitchum, Jr. and his subsequent B-Movie career will know that not only did he look like dad, but so too did he ''sound'' like the legend. Thus, the applied voice is more ill-fitting than usual (if memory serves, Jim provided his own voice for the English dub track of ''The Tramplers''). Mitchum’s filmography is neither robust nor particularly distinguished, but there’s a few hidden jewels tucked away in there. Standouts include a strong central role in the middling war film ''Ambush Bay'' (1966); headlining the excellent 1976 hick-in-the-city thriller ''Trackdown''; the heroic, beleaguered cop in the grubby exploitation flick ''Blackout'' (1978); and a nicely judged cameo in Monte Hellman’s much-loved ode to car culture, ''Two-Lane Blacktop'' (1971). Best of all is the 1977 bonkers gonzo-thriller ''Ransom'', which – in true spaghetti style – has more alternative titles than it does lines of dialogue (aka. ''Maniac!'' aka. ''Assault in Paradise''). The cast of Richard Compton’s film is as insane as its rambling plot: as well as Mitchum, there’s Oliver Reed, John Ireland, Paul Koslo and Stuart Whitman. It’s well-worth seeking out.<br />
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Having avoided being killed by a gang of gunmen, Wes returns home and meets the one-legged character of Fred (actor unknown – if anybody can identify this performer, please let me know and I will update/amend this article). Hindsight tells us this must be a Corbucci touch, such was the master’s fascination with physical mutilation (although Band would have Mitchum ''become'' the amputee in ''The Tramplers'', with the character of Hoby Cordeen losing an arm, so maybe Band, too, showed equal interest in the real-world cost of heroism). Fred points out a grave dedicated to his missing leg. ''“I brought it back and buried it there,”'' he explains, conjuring one hell of a macabre image, darkly amusing. Crushed hands, scalpings, severed vocal cords, missing limbs (see also Mario Adorf in ''The Specialists'') – how Corbucci loved to maim and mark his characters (if, indeed, this was his scene).<br />
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Wes rides back into his hometown. The whole environment convinces. Giuseppe Ranieri’s set design is on-point. Mitchum looks good in the saddle, confident and at ease as he cuts through town. We learn from the town sheriff, Cooly (Rossi-Stuart), that Wes has been gone for two years. The prolific Rossi-Stuart was rarely utilized as a lead, which is a shame. Always a welcome presence in any film, his defining roles might be as the heroic doctor in Bava’s classic Gothic horror ''Operazione paura/ Kill, Baby, Kill'', (1966) and as Vincent Price’s former friend, now vampiric antagonist in ''The Last Man on Earth'' (1964).<br />
We learn that Wes’ sweetheart, Nancy, has married Tully Dancer (Giorgio Ardisson) during his absence. Tully is the meanest member of the Dancer clan, who – in true spaghetti style – are in the midst of a violent range war with the Whitmore family. Both factions want ownership of Red Grass Valley, and Wes will inevitably find himself caught in the crossfire. But, in true screen cowboy fashion, Wes is a former lawman who has had enough of the gun. He wants to be a cattleman. The town Judge and Sheriff try to convince him to pin on the badge once more, but our hero’s newly broken heart forces him to move on. Band and Corbucci’s idea of romance is as twisted and as bitter as their morality; it’s the very best kind of romantic subplot, love just another battlefield to tear a man apart or pock his soul with scars.<br />
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In the next scene, a drunken lout attempts to high-kick Wes in the jaw but is thrown to floor. This triggers an excellent saloon dustup. Mitchum handles the physical stuff convincingly – it’s all him, not a single shot where the actor appears doubled by a stunt man. His subsequent B-Movie career proved a good match for his ragged, cinderblock persona. Wes then retreats to his former home. How many times have we seen the lone cowboy return, his former residence covered in dust and buried beneath a stratum of spider-webbing? But there’s real feeling here, a palpable loneliness backed by Ferrio’s solemn score. In fact, as a whole, the film feels more thoughtful than your average Italian oater. Wes’ confusion and lamentation about having lost both his woman and time supports much of these early scenes and creates the film’s austere backbone. Massacre is a naïvely sombre film, and I find myself drawn to its clichéd conviction, applauding its focus. I know many commentators are ambivalent to this film at best, dismissive at worst, but the film’s acknowledged failings are so well handled by an expert cast and crew that the picture somehow manages to conjure a genuine sincerity, nonetheless. <br />
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Confronted by Nancy, the wounded Wes is awkward and snarky. Rightly so, Nancy tears a strip off our hero before the scene slides into rote exposition. Thankfully, Ardisson, as likeably smug as ever, turns up to save the scene from becoming overly saccharine. Ardisson had begun his career in Pepla (including two with Mario Bava: ''Gli invasori/ Erik the Conqouror'' and ''Ercole al centro della Terra/ Hercules in the Haunted World'', both 1961) before flirting tentatively with the European western. He eventually found his metier in the Eurospy filone, and a fistful of decent Gialli. <br />
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Ardisson works for his own wealthy but ailing father, Eric (Eduardo Ciannelli), bedridden as if ravaged by his own material avarice. Cue much boudoir plotting between the Dancer patriarch and his sons. Eric’s condition is unexpected. It’s another nice (Corbucci-esque?) touch. In a scene of encroaching ambush, the director(s) cut back and forth between thunderous hooves on the approach and the silence of the titular canyon and those who wait to attack. These riding scenes are visually exciting, matched by the sight – and sound – of countless rifles being cocked. Good riding sequences often go underappreciated in the western film, I think. We, the fans, tend to take them for granted – it’s just horses running, right? But a perceptive director and talented DoP were often able to capture the taut musculature and driving energy of such movement, convert it successfully to film as visual adrenaline, and such is the case here. Barboni and his young apprentice Massi work wonders here with the horse action.<br />
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The titular massacre which follows is well-crafted and staged with fair elan. (Note that the title is a complete misnomer: there is no Grand Canyon here, only ‘Butte Canyon’, which surely ranks as the funniest piece of tautology since Kirk Morris visited the Scottish village of ‘Loch Lake’ in Riccardo Freda’s ''Maciste all'inferno/Maciste in Hell'' [1962]). The warring factions of Dancer and Whitmore exchange gunfire in an extended, thrilling sequence. Bullets pang off rockface, spitting clouds of dust and debris. Seeking the advantage of high ground, men climb the steep incline and take cover behind jutting stone; for once, there exists some form of logical strategy here, in a genre where many filmmakers were happy to have their actors merely point and shoot. The wounded and dead roll violently down hostile terrain, bodies bouncing with loose shale, the stuntmen fully earning their pay cheques. <br />
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Keen to see an end to the bloodshed, Wes halts the carnage by waving a white flag. He demands Tully take him to his father. There follows an effective moment of suspense, wherein the viewer isn’t sure as to whether Tully will acquiesce or ignore the plea and initiate further gunfire. Dwarfed by the impressive canyon, the men disband like ants. The film makes superb use of those spatial dimensions. <br />
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Looking to establish a modicum of peace, Wes is granted access to the bedridden Eric. They talk whilst Tully rocks in a chair and Giordani (as the younger, more innocent Clay Dancer) stands in the background, looking moody or perplexed. Band fills the frame well, positioning his actors with an obvious and effective specificity. Wes formulates a plan, looking to take Clay hostage. Mitchum’s character is no mere gun thug; he’s a tactician, forever one-move ahead of the other characters. Mitchum has often been criticised for his underplaying, those sleepy eyes giving nothing away with regard to contained emotion, but that laconic impassivity suites the character of Wes here. When Ardisson’s men threaten him, Wes remains unphased; their guns have nothing against his unflappable cool. But if our hero’s weapon is his brain, then Eric opts to fight via money, his weapon of choice being his chequebook. The senior Dancer is even willing to sacrifice his youngest son in order to reach his objective. Violence, intellect and commerce: viable threats, all.<br />
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Back at the sheriff’s office, Cooley is cleaning his dismantled pistol. He appears to have spent an equal amount of time feathering his trademark blonde pompadour, too. Wes talks again of his father, and – once again – the viewer can’t help but think of the actor’s real-world connection. Was this by design? Did the screenwriters mean to conjure the memory of Jim’s more famous father in an effort to tie their film to its more legitimate lineage? Probably not, but it’s a fascinating and singular thing to ponder. <br />
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Next scene, and Mitchum beats the shit out of a lackey. He pummels the poor bastard into submission and then carries him to the Sheriff’s office. They bind him and gag him, and then the film does something rather technically remarkable. Band – or Corbucci, or whoever – and Barboni have the camera lift off Mitchum’s captive and concentrate on the stone wall of the cell. The camera then climbs the wall, all rippling grey rock, until we meet a twilight skyline, the scene having transitioned seamlessly from cell to canyon wall in a moment of imaginative transition. One suspects the hand of Massi here. It’s a minor visual indicator, nothing flash, but it works wonderfully. Sometimes derided for their cookie-cutter manufacture, the spaghetti western was always able to surprise on a technical level, depending on who was behind the film.<br />
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By this point the plot is needlessly convoluted. There are so many factions looking to deceive that the tangled narrative threatens to confuse. Nancy is almost raped, but Mitchum arrives and beats the villain into an unconscious state before carrying him off. This is the second time we’ve seen Wes carrying a man over his shoulder, and this time it almost raises a smile. Is he stockpiling his enemies, removing them from the equation one-by-one? The answer, it would seem, is yes: moments later, we are shown three men tied and gaged in the jail cell. <br />
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The film lands at its climax. Wes and Sheriff Cooley are pinned down in the lawman’s office. It’s a classic siege showdown. The armament of both factions is clear and forceful: Ardisson and his men have pistols, whilst our heroes are brandishing Winchesters. There’s an excellent close-up of Mitchum, face in profile as he presses his body up against the wall, peering out through a barred window, the frame split in two, a bravura display of depth perception. Crouching low, Cooley takes up a pistol in each hand and begins to fire alternately, going all John Woo some twenty-odd years before John Woo became a cultural short-hand for creative cinematic gunplay. The door to the sheriff’s office opens, revealing nothing but smoky darkness and an eery stillness worthy of a Hammer horror. This is all good stuff – atmospheric and suitably grim. The gang approach the law office in unison, convinced they have killed everybody inside. Again, Band places his villains well within his shot, making good use of the Panoramico frame.<br />
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Cooley is shot and killed. Wes stands over the body of his fallen friend, the melancholy skyline behind him an expansive, mournful blue, the shot seemingly captured during the so-called magic hour. ''Massacre'' really is a beautifully photographed film. ''‘He was a brave man,’'' says the mayor as the townsfolk congregate. A concise yet accurate sentiment, as good as any eulogy. Mitchum crouches low over the body, his grief understated but plain. ''‘The only one in this town,’'' he replies. This is a welcome scene; too often in many spaghetti westerns, the death of a key character is simply washed over or ignored, as if such a narrative turn should only be seen, not felt. Band does well to not only include this moment of genuine pathos, but to highlight it so remarkably with that mournful dawn canvas, all of it played out in a single shot, as if the filmmakers knew they might lose the light at any given second. It’s a brilliant sequence, as exciting as any moment of action rendered in the film. <br />
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There is more gunplay back at the canyon, but this feels slightly superfluous. It looks suspiciously like it was shot at the very same time as the earlier massacre. It plays too familiar; we’ve seen this locale before, with near-identical action, so why repeat it? Luckily, Band intercuts this with Wes leading a charge with his incoming rescue. Wes and Tully fire at each other, their horses turning stressfully at all the noise and conflict. There’s a terrific dummy death, as one of the men plummets to his death from atop a butte. Band’s keen eye to detail extends to Wes as marksman. Wes takes great care with a couple of shots, lining his pistol carefully against his intended target before pulling the trigger. Again, this plays much better than merely having your actor point and shoot in the general direction of the enemy. Mitchum and Ardisson glower at each other for a couple of seconds before Tully takes off and Wes gives chase. The scale here is impressive. The frame is packed with some fifty, sixty men, reminding the viewer that Massacre has a fair budget at its disposal.<br />
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''Massacre'' is also a film of small yet impressive invention. Take that final chase. Not content to merely cut back-and-forth between trampling hooves, the director has Ardisson drag a sagebrush ball of fire behind his horse, setting flame to the land as he rides, no doubt hoping to slow the gaining Wes. As noted before but worth repeating here, Mitchum Jr. appears to be an excellent rider. Thrown from his wounded horse, Wes is saved from execution by Fred, the one-legged war veteran. Even in victory, Mitchum looks non-plussed. The film’s coda sees Clay Dancer about to be hung in front of his ailing father. Wes intervenes, carrying the body of Ardisson, one dead son substituting another (‘The right son’, say Wes). Clay is released, escorting his grieving, frail father back to the homestead. Wes tells the now-widowed Nancy that he is staying in town, and that he will be donning the sheriff’s badge once more. Dubiously, the films seems to suggest that, with his broken heart now mended, Wes is happy to return to a life of violence. I guess a man craves corporeal balance; the heart and flesh are both capable of inflicting terrible pain, but, ideally, at least in the wild, wild world of the spaghetti western, never at the same time. <br />
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This is the second climax of the film for Wes, following the opening, and the least satisfying of the two. At the end of his earlier vengeance cycle, he emerged tired, lost, without incentive. This second point of closure is more traditional: having slaughtered the villains and seen justice prevail, Wes is reunited with his true love and has been reintegrated successfully back into society, the tin star repositioning him as integral cog within the fragile machinations of community. He is no longer the bitter, lone gunfighter. That’s a shame. The best spaghetti westerns retained their cynicism to the final frame, rightly dubious of the so-called ‘happy ending’. Another point, Band. Corbucci, the eternal pessimist, knew that the end for his heroes meant uncertainty and penance, the scarring of the physical and the psyche alike. If – of course – they were (un)lucky enough to survive. <br />
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Obviously, this article stands as a positive reappraisal. Yes, the film often feels like a rigid facsimile of the standard American western, but I think we, as fans, must get past the notion of that being a bad thing. The early aping of the American western by the European filmmakers should be celebrated, surely? The films that came prior to ''Fistful''’s artistic influence – and enviable profit incentive – were often high-risk anomalies, shot by directors like The Marchent’s and Mario Caiano who demonstrated a clear affinity for the genre, and whose films were – I would argue – much more lovingly produced than most which merely fell off the factory-line conveyor built after the zeitgeist had begun proper. <br />
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Massacre also feels like the first part of a minor, unacknowledged trifecta of films linked by key talent. As we have discussed, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' is a work credited to Albert Band and Sergio Corbucci, ratio unknown. It stars James Mitchum in the lead role. Band would go onto direct ''The Tramplers'', an excellent adaptation of ''Guns of North Texas'' by Will Cook. ''Guns of North Texas'' is a solid little 1958 pulp paperback western, fast and extremely enjoyable. The film adaptation is a literal translation from novel to screen, much dialogue included. It works – the film is something of a rough gem and remains massively underappreciated. Band’s film stars Joseph Cotton as a deranged Southern patriarch looking to rebuild the South in the wake of the American civil war. It co-stars Gordon Scott, Franco Nero and one Jim Mitchum. One can only assume that Band enjoyed working with Mitchum, Jr. on ''Massacre'' to have him star in his following picture. Corbucci, meanwhile, would go on to director ''The Hellbenders''. That 1966 picture is slowly encroaching on masterpiece territory, worthy of discussion alongside Corbucci’s more well-known classics. It stars – and stop me if you’ve heard this one before – Joseph Cotton as a deranged Southern patriarch looking to reconstitute the South in the wake of the American civil war. But whereas The ''Tramplers'' was a recognizable American western in Euro-dress, ''The Hellbenders'' is 100% pure Corbucci, uncut. Dark, disturbing and cruelly hilarious, ''The Hellbenders'' is more evocative of Tobe Hooper’s original ''Texas Chainsaw Massacre'' (1974) than any traditional western, what with its focus on a psychotic family’s murderous collusion and grasping need to control. ''The Hellbenders'' is fucking insane, grimly delirious, and I only see its reputation growing more steadily in the coming years. So, the key personnel behind ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' would splinter off and create two excellent (albeit tonally divergent yet thematically identical) Italian Westerns in ''The Tramplers'' and ''The Hellbenders''. If said lineage is perhaps too tenuous to form a loose, unofficial trilogy of sorts, then those three pictures at least make for a fine triple-feature and remain inextricably linked in this viewer’s mind.<br />
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Gianni Ferrio’s score is a tough nut to crack. It’s not bad – on the contrary, some of the more melancholy cues are remarkably effective – but for the most part it feels ill-judged. Too jaunty, too upbeat, just too wrong for what’s unfolding on screen. Ferrio was a superb composer and contributed many of the finest scores to some of the most interesting spaghetti westerns, but this doesn’t rank amongst his best work. (At the risk of pissing off many hardcore fans, I must confess that, much as I love Morricone’s trendsetting work within the genre, I feel other composers ultimately surpassed him with regard to becoming integral to the spaghetti western experience as a whole: Ferrio, the brilliant Francesco De Masi, Bacalov, Riz Ortolani, A.F. Lavagnino, Carlo Savina, Carlo Rustichelli, the prolific Stelvio Cipriani and the superb Piero Piccioni to name but a few – but that’s a whole other opinion piece.) Last released by GDM on a 24-track CD, Ferrio’s ''Massacre'' score struggles to play cohesively beyond the parameters of the film it accompanies. <br />
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Finally, that phenomenal poster art. The gunfighter’s stance, pistol aimed, gun-belt all loose and casual, death splayed out through the centre of those poised legs, the chaos of war rendered live in the background: all classic motifs of the genre, distilled into one perfect piece of pulp advertising. If the film itself doesn’t come as close to capturing all that is great about the European western, ''Massacre at Grand Canyon'' might – at the very least – be a better spaghetti western than most remember. <br />
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'''Note: This article is based on a print currently available for streaming on Amazon Prime UK. The (restored?) picture quality is excellent, far surpassing the much-loved Koch and Wild East DVD versions. Said version retains its original Panoramico aspect ratio of 1:85:1.'''</div>DGBell