There's a sequence towards the end of "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" in which Tim Holt must keep his eye and his gun on the paranoid Humphrey Bogart, who has threatened to jump him whenever he has a chance in order to steal the treasure. It's a tense journey. Holt must be forever on his guard.
This inexpensive black-and-white Western is a little like that sequence, stretched out to feature length, with a bit of "3:10 to Yuma" thrown in. William Conrad is the American deputy who captures accused murderer Quinn in a small Mexican village and must take his prisoner through Indian country and back to Scottsville for trial.
Everyone seems attracted to Quinn's character, for reasons that escape me. He's not an evil guy but neither is he charismatic. Yet his live-in Mexican girl friend is willing to die to save him, a little girl picked up during the journey loves him, and even Conrad begins to weep as he bitterly admits that everybody likes Quinn while nobody loves Conrad.
It's a routine story, with some irrelevant plot points. Quinn's charisma has nothing to do with the outcome of the story. And some discontinuity. Quinn, a known fast gun who has killed at least one man and treats his girl friend casually, suddenly turns to jello when he befriends the orphaned young girl. That girl, Ellen Hope Monroe, seemed very familiar, as if she'd grown into a well-known adult actress, but that appears not to have been the case.
The photography and make up are careless. After Quinn shoots a couple of evil drunken Apaches, the shadow of the camera is noticeable several times in the shots. The actors sweat, except that in the desert no one sweats. The air is so dry that sweat evaporates immediately. I drove through Death Valley with someone who drank beer after beer and never needed to urinate. The clothing, which should look dusty, looks greasy, as if the actors had just crawled out from beneath a truck. I can't think of many black-and-white Westerns that have managed to suggest clothing or flesh that's dusty instead of simply filthy with accumulated black grease.
There is one element that's unusual. Quinn and three other characters speak Spanish, just as they would have. Of course Quinn was born in Chihuahua but came to the states at an early age, and it was a surprise to hear how comfortable he was with the language. He'd never used it in any of his other "ethnic" roles. Oh, I just thought of another surprise. As the credits role and a dull song is played, the lyrics are belted out by a robust, earnest, and strenuous tenor belonging to Eddie Albert. I winced.
This inexpensive black-and-white Western is a little like that sequence, stretched out to feature length, with a bit of "3:10 to Yuma" thrown in. William Conrad is the American deputy who captures accused murderer Quinn in a small Mexican village and must take his prisoner through Indian country and back to Scottsville for trial.
Everyone seems attracted to Quinn's character, for reasons that escape me. He's not an evil guy but neither is he charismatic. Yet his live-in Mexican girl friend is willing to die to save him, a little girl picked up during the journey loves him, and even Conrad begins to weep as he bitterly admits that everybody likes Quinn while nobody loves Conrad.
It's a routine story, with some irrelevant plot points. Quinn's charisma has nothing to do with the outcome of the story. And some discontinuity. Quinn, a known fast gun who has killed at least one man and treats his girl friend casually, suddenly turns to jello when he befriends the orphaned young girl. That girl, Ellen Hope Monroe, seemed very familiar, as if she'd grown into a well-known adult actress, but that appears not to have been the case.
The photography and make up are careless. After Quinn shoots a couple of evil drunken Apaches, the shadow of the camera is noticeable several times in the shots. The actors sweat, except that in the desert no one sweats. The air is so dry that sweat evaporates immediately. I drove through Death Valley with someone who drank beer after beer and never needed to urinate. The clothing, which should look dusty, looks greasy, as if the actors had just crawled out from beneath a truck. I can't think of many black-and-white Westerns that have managed to suggest clothing or flesh that's dusty instead of simply filthy with accumulated black grease.
There is one element that's unusual. Quinn and three other characters speak Spanish, just as they would have. Of course Quinn was born in Chihuahua but came to the states at an early age, and it was a surprise to hear how comfortable he was with the language. He'd never used it in any of his other "ethnic" roles. Oh, I just thought of another surprise. As the credits role and a dull song is played, the lyrics are belted out by a robust, earnest, and strenuous tenor belonging to Eddie Albert. I winced.