Johnny Guitar

 

Director Nicholas Ray

Ray with Joan Crawford

Crawford (left) with Mercedes Cambridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JOHNNY GUITAR         A                                                                                                             USA  (110 mi)  1954  d: Nicholas Ray

Never seen a woman who was more of a man.  She thinks like one, acts like one, and sometimes makes me feel like I’m not.    —Sam (Robert Osterloh), one of the blackjack dealers

Easily Nicholas Ray’s most subversive film, coming after They Live By Night (1948),  In a Lonely Place (1950), and On Dangerous Ground (1952), doing well at the box office but trashed by the critics, completely misunderstood at the time, refusing to conform to expectations of the male-dominated Western genre, which is typically an amalgamation of racism, sexism, and xenophobia, viewed by Ray as the biggest failure of his career, a continuance of his brooding outsider theme while also an indictment of mob psychology.  Conceived as a blatant response to the Hollywood blacklist and the witch hunt period of McCarthyism, this was a Cold War-era pursuit of men and women who were accused of being communists, most were falsely accused and imprisoned, their livelihoods and careers ruined by men who blatantly pushed the conspiracy theories of the day, yet the film’s reputation has been resuscitated by Martin Scorsese and other film scholars, beloved in Europe, including François Truffaut, who hailed Ray as “the poet of nightfall,” describing this film as “the Beauty and the Beast of Westerns,” listed at #9 for best picture in 1955 from the French film magazine Cahiers du Cinéma, Cahiers du Cinema: 1951-2011, with many now praising this as among Ray’s best work.  Based on a 1953 novel by B-picture screenwriter Roy Chanslor, with a script largely credited to Philip Yordan, though blacklisted writer Ben Maddow may have contributed, heavily revised by Ray, it was written for Joan Crawford, who bought the rights for the movie, basically the producer for her own picture, the one calling the shots, often altering the script to suit her, with Crawford at the time an aging film star who grew paranoid about her fading career, constantly making demands that only heightened her insecurity, where there was constant friction on the set between her and her leading man, Sterling Hayden, with Crawford calling him “the biggest pill in Hollywood,” while Hayden exclaimed, “There is not enough money in Hollywood that could lure me into making another picture with Joan Crawford.  And I like money.”  Yet within this cauldron of Hollywood combustion and turmoil lies a truly magnificent script, among Hollywood’s greatest poetry, as the dialogue is crisp and fiercely antagonistic, filled with shots and counter shots at one another, where this is the epitome of a town that’s not big enough for the two competing interests, with Joan Crawford as Vienna representing the new world dream of the railroad, hoping to cash in on the future, and Mercedes Cambridge as Emma Small representing the old world of cattle interests, where they don’t believe in fences or anything restricting the far reaches of vast and unlimited lands.  Vienna even has a miniature model of a town in her saloon, destined to become a railroad stop, referenced by Sergio Leone when he created Claudia Cardinale’s character in ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (1968).  Subverting the Western as a male vehicle, Nicolas Ray pits two women against one another, both detesting the other, with the film seething with their outright contempt, becoming an eroticized antagonism, with both distinguishing themselves in the roles, while Hayden as Johnny Guitar serves as the love interest, a role usually reserved for a woman, yet his pretty boy image is mocked by his direct and straightforward approach, standing up to any man, though often from the shadows.  Due to the camp nature of the film, wildly flamboyant with exaggerated stereotypes and operatic melodrama, some may question the feminist intent, but that’s the baffling nature of the film, examining the costs of a woman’s independent action through lurid, violent exaggeration, where Vienna isn’t willing to sacrifice her autonomy for Johnny, and just as surprisingly, he never asks her to.  Described as “a revisionist western, a feminist polemic, a vibrant fairy tale, a subversive cold war parable, maybe even a queer cult classic, ReFramed No. 23: Nicholas Ray's 'Johnny Guitar' (1954),” it has a beloved stature in the gay community (who loved to do Crawford in drag), openly embraced for how it has undermined the sexual roles, leaving audiences confused at the time of its release, with Vienna bitterly reminding Johnny, “A man can lie, steal, and even kill, but as long as he hangs on to his pride, he’s still a man.  All a woman has to do is slip – once, and she’s a ‘tramp!’  Must be a great comfort to you to be a man.”  There are also lesbian undercurrents, with Emma having a delusional fantasy about the Dancin’ Kid (Scott Brady), yet her real interest, it seems, is Vienna, yet the sentiment is not reciprocated, which only leaves her more incensed, subconsciously repressing that interest and wanting her dead if she can’t have her.  It’s a strange alignment of stars, certainly among the most mysterious of all Westerns, yet it has all the standard conventions, a stagecoach holdup, a bank robbery, a hired gun, a posse turned into a lynch mob, a villain’s lair, a barroom brawl, a woman with a past, and a kid trying to prove himself.  Hayden’s tough guy persona is used to brilliant effect, as he doesn’t carry a gun, carrying a guitar on his back instead, introducing himself as a disinterested bystander at one point, “I’m a stranger here myself,” completely confounding the outlaw gang who don’t know where he stands, making the barroom confrontation even more wonderful, as the standoff isn’t with guns but with words, a delightful turn of events, and the rapid-fire dialogue doesn’t disappoint, ever more mythologized over time, endlessly quoted and repeated, including his maxim for living, “When you boil it all down, what does a man really need?  Just a smoke and a cup of coffee,” a line that diffuses armed conflict from escalating. 

The last film shot on Trucolor, a highly saturated two-strip, red and blue process, much of it shot in some stunning outdoor landscapes of Sedona, Arizona by Harry Stradling Sr, while other scenes were filmed near Oak Creek Canyon between Phoenix and Sedona, where the rocks have a reddish tint, yet Crawford refused to subject herself to the desert setting, so all her outdoor close-ups were actually shot in studio, using a double for long shots.  Shot at Republic Pictures, Ray’s first after leaving RKO, a smaller low-budget studio known primarily for B-movies that was a step down from Crawford’s days as the glamorous star at MGM and then Warners, so she let Ray and everyone else on the set know it, making their lives a living hell with temper tantrums and constant demands for more scenes and close-ups, even attempting to sabotage actress Mercedes Cambridge, bullying her on the set while ripping her costumes to shreds, thrown along the side of a highway in a drunken spree.  Ray reportedly vomited several times before arriving to work each day, as the heightened tension working with Crawford was unbearable.  Not like any other cowboy drama, playing havoc with Western conventions while reveling in sexual role-reversals, where in the middle of it all is Victor Young’s enchanting musical score, Ray sets his film shortly after the Civil War, taking place outside a fictitious town of Red Butte, Arizona (identified by the bank), as a stranger wanders into town by the name of Johnny Guitar, but along the way he witnesses a stagecoach robbery from high above a mountain vista, unable to see details, while all around them explosions are going off to make way for the coming railroad.  Entering town is like entering a dream, arriving during a sandstorm, where all you can make out is the name of the saloon, Vienna’s, with a casino inside, yet it is eerily empty, with no customers, yet the barkeep and dealers are all eyeballing the man who walked in out of a storm, discovering Vienna, now the owner, is a former saloon hostess, with short cropped hair, dressed entirely in black boots, pants and shirt, with dark red lipstick, yet carrying a holster, just like a man.  Seen early on having a business meeting with a railroad executive, she more than holds her own, viewed as a domineering force who is defiantly self-reliant, even barking out orders in her low voice to her casino workers, yet this establishment is peculiarly built right into a rock, which accounts for some of the jagged walls.  The leisurely pace of the opening is interrupted by the arrival of an angry mob led by Emma, including John McIvers (Ward Bond), a cattleman mayor, Marshal Williams (Frank Ferguson), and a motley group of men, providing a dead body as evidence, calling out for Vienna to be charged with the murder of her brother in the stagecoach robbery, though no evidence points to her.  Emma claims it was done by the Dancin’ Kid gang, friends of Vienna, claiming she’s harboring a gang of criminals and needs to be run out of town.  Vienna starts out on the top of the stairs, eyeballing the group, calmly proclaiming her innocence, indicating “Down there I sell whiskey and cards.  All you can buy up these stairs is a bullet in the head.  Now which do you want?”  But when Emma makes it personal, making threats, she walks down the stairs, with Emma warning, “I’m going to kill you.”  Vienna answers, “I know.  If I don’t kill you first.”  And therein lies the dramatic theme, radiating a persistent anxiety about change, as the two protagonists are dead set in their intentions, both fiercely independent, yet stubbornly persistent.  Emma’s hysteria is matched by Vienna’s calm restraint, never backing down, but holding her own against heavily stacked odds.  McIvers gives her and her ilk 24-hours to get out of town if they want to avoid trouble, an ultimatum at odds with the Marshal’s law, but he means business, with threats setting the stage for future hostilities.  In the midst of this showdown in the saloon, Johnny distinguishes himself as the only man without a gun, yet his calmness and good humor belies the situation, egged on by Bart (Ernest Borgnine), one of the Kid’s gang, and the two get to tussling, mostly happening offscreen, as the camera stays on Vienna and the Kid, who stand around a blackjack table discussing their feelings, returning to the fight only when it’s over, a forgettable brawl of no consequence whatsoever, with Johnny beating him senseless.  While no one says it out loud, this stranger seems surprisingly at ease, appearing out of nowhere, raising the question, “Who is this guy?”  Johnny and Vienna have a history together, yet broke it off five years ago, with Vienna calling him back as hired protection, yet her underlying motivation is to rekindle that love affair.  She hides her feelings, however, behind the bravado of the brawl, with each dancing around the inevitable, creating a mysterious ballet of emotional standoffishness, yet then instantaneously they apparently reconnect, awakening the next morning with their relationship reassured.  Vienna has some unfinished business, making a withdrawal from the bank to pay off her staff, as she’ll be closing down.  But they’re met by the Kid and his gang, who are there to rob the bank, thinking so long as they’re run out of the premises, they’ll at least have some traveling money.  While the timing couldn’t be more peculiar, the outlaw escape is equally harrowing, as they head into the mountains at the same time as dynamite explosions are closing down the pass, making the crossing impossible, returning to their hideout tucked away from it all, perched atop a mountainous rock, yet completely out of sight behind a waterfall, with the anxious men seething in anger and discontent.

While this is a Joan Crawford picture, Mercedes Cambridge steals the show as a raving psychopath, insanely over-the-top, serving as the town instigator, stirring the men into a frenzy, underscoring the men’s sheepishness, quickly forming a posse headed by McIvers (which mirrors Ward Bond’s anti-communist role in spearheading the McCarthy attacks), but she spurs them on at every turn chasing after the Kid and his gang, banishing Vienna from town, and even worse, instilling the men with a lynch mob hysteria, veering into territory explored by Fritz Lang’s Fury (1936) and William Wellman’s The Ox-Bow Incident (1943), where ordinary citizens can be bullied into a psychotic rage, completely transformed into a communal bloodlust for killing.  While McIvers is the man in charge, she is the pathological force that actually drives this picture, playing an unforgettable role of pure evil incarnate, getting a maniacal reaction after torching Vienna’s business and burning it down, and while the community may be responsible for carrying out a hanging, she goads them all along the way, pushing them further and further into following their worst instincts, crossing the line into criminality and even murder.  The half-crazed, pathological mania behind her neurotic vengeance is at the heart of the picture, standing for the ruthlessly corrupt power behind the McCarthy hearings, whose rigid standards are driven by a delusionary, Puritanical repression, matching Emma’s own deeply repressed sexual identity, with Vienna explaining that the Kid “makes her feel like a woman, and that frightens her,” instead instilling a poisonous venom over every frame of the film.  Identity fluctuates throughout this picture, as Vienna changes from pants to dresses (butch to femme), Johnny goes from being unarmed to wearing a gun, Johnny has changed his name, while Vienna has changed her profession.  Moreover, the Kid and his gang are charged for a stage holdup they didn’t commit, Vienna is repeatedly charged with masterminding crimes she had nothing to do with, while her sexual role from male to female also fluctuates with the costume she wears.  She is financially independent, owning her own business, and is always in control of her relationships, whether it be with the Kid or Johnny, always choosing the man she wants rather than be chosen by them.  Meeting an angry lynch mob in her saloon after the bank robbery, she’s alone in a cavernous saloon wearing a flowing white dress of innocence, seen calmly playing a sad song on the piano, an astonishing yet remarkably unforeseen image with the interior rocks adding an eerie backdrop, but when the vicious mob overruns her claim of guiltlessness, she’s hauled off for a hanging with her saloon gleefully burned down by Emma.  The lynch mob possesses evil intent, consumed on getting vengeance, browbeating a terrified kid into implicating Vienna (pressuring many well-known actors and directors into naming names is precisely what was so heinous about the McCarthy hearings), promising him immunity, but breaking every promise they make, hanging him anyway while Vienna is gallantly rescued by Johnny with the noose still around her neck, a last second reprieve from the gallows’ rope.  A figure of female power in a traditionally male-dominated West, she maintains her composure even after her business is burned to the ground, viewed as a rugged, tough individual, an equal in every respect to Johnny Guitar, or any other man, switching back into pants afterwards, easily exuding both masculine and feminine traits, but what’s missing is any sense of vulnerability or female mystique, where any romance is more suggestive than real or visibly expressed onscreen.  While Mildred Pierce (1945) breathed new life into Crawford’s flagging career, this film coincided with a downturn in her star status, where the exaggerated fever dream of this film only heightened a prevailing view of her as camp.  Figuring into this public descent was Crawford’s open attack on Marilyn Monroe’s flaunted sexuality, which she likened to a “burlesque show” unsuitable for the screen, claiming her films weren’t doing any business.  The story was a sensation in Hollywood, with most defending Monroe, who would, of course, become a huge box office star, while Crawford was viewed as an over-the-hill actress whose star had faded, openly revealing her jealousy of Monroe’s quick ascent into the Hollywood mainstream.  Even during the filming of this film, the press viciously attacked her, claiming her behavior on the set was unprofessional, accused of bullying Mercedes Cambridge, with Sterling Hayden echoing that thought, so her personal life matches a character that hates all other women, viewing them all as rivals, which greatly accelerates her exaggerated view as camp.  The finale, however, really tops it off, where there is an inevitable shootout between the two female stars, taking place at the outlaw hideout, while the men are reduced to secondary characters who simply watch it all happen, but the film begins and ends with Johnny, elevated to an intoxicating degree with a lover’s kiss in front of a waterfall to Peggy Lee’s wistful and melancholic rendition of the final theme song, Johnny Guitar (Title Song) YouTube (3:11), singing “There was never a man like my Johnny, like the one they call Johnny Guitar,” as if the entire film has been narrated by her.  Out of nowhere, viewers are reminded that the title of the film is in name only, as Crawford is the one wearing the pants and pushing all the buttons.  Described as part fatalism, part romanticism, the cinema of outsiders and loners, and also the cinema of gun fighting women, critic Jonathan Rosenbaum described this as the “first existential western.” 

Martin Scorsese introduces Johnny Guitar (USA, 1954) dir. Nicholas Ray YouTube (3:27)

Fort Apache

 

Director John Ford

John Wayne

Wayne and Fonda on the set with Shirley Temple and John Agar

Pedro Armendáriz

FORT APACHE          B                                                                                                           USA  (128 mi)  1948  d:  John Ford

Theirs not to reason why,                                                                                                               Theirs but to do and die….

—The Charge of the Light Brigade, by Lord Alfred Tennyson, 1854, The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred, Lord… | Poetry ...

The first of Ford’s Cavalry Trilogy, followed by She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949) and RIO GRANDE (1950), all starring John Wayne, this is an unadorned war picture, filled with plenty of flag waving along with the pomp and circumstance of military life that includes drills, drinking bouts, dressing downs, punishments, riding lessons, misadventures, dinners, dances, and even serenades, depicting life at a desolate outpost in the middle of Apache territory in Arizona, utilizing the great expanse of the Monument Valley, yet concerns itself with the myopic vision of a disgruntled East coast army officer who feels exiled to the wilderness, Henry Fonda in one of his most repellent roles as Lt. Colonel Owen Thursday, whose arrogance and ruthless ambition gets the better of him, itching to fight with the Indians, wanting to make a name for himself, emulating the role of General George Armstrong Custer and his ill-fated stand at Little Big Horn.  Resentful of his loss in rank and transfer to the West after serving gallantly as a General in the Civil War, Thursday insists upon imposing a rigid, imperious authority to a lackadaisical frontier setting that goes by its own rules, never ingratiating himself into the community, remaining a highly visible outcast, alienated from his own troops, who he believes are beneath his lofty stature.  Standing in stark contrast, Wayne is Captain York, already experienced with the ways of the West, surprisingly presenting a sympathetic view of Indians, familiar with their history and mistreatment, seeing the wisdom of making peace with Apache chief Cochise (Miguel Inclán), who poses a threat by removing his tribe off the reservation south to Mexico due to starvation, rampant corruption, and disease, largely from the dubious role of corrupt Indian agents motivated by greed who’ve been profiteering by pilfering food and selling bad alcohol to Indians.  With Indians depicted through a white man’s view, mythologized here as noble savages, the Apaches are given no backstory or historical perspective, mostly remaining silent stereotypes, showing no distinct character or culture, and are largely absent from the screen, so what we know about them comes entirely from white interactions with them, with John Wayne, the everpresent white savior cowboy, appearing as a heroic Indian expert, something akin to an Indian whisperer.  Using Mexicans and Navajos as Apache Indians, yet given the distinct appearance of Plains Indians, the film was shot in black and white by Archie Stout, who had his own issues with Ford while shooting in 100 degree heat, where the iconic opening shot is a cavalry bugler framed against the horizon, while dramatic skies were achieved by using infrared film stock.  While the film gets bogged down in displaying the ordinary rituals of everyday life, the overbloated midsection tends to meander, easily getting sidetracked, postponing the inevitable confrontation with the Apaches until the latter stages.  What’s perhaps most surprising is the post-climax denouement, which foreshadows what might be Ford’s best work, the self-reflective film essay The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), as we see how a mythical legend replaces the truth, as history is filled with quasi-heroes, men whose public image and persona have been beefed up to hide and obscure the far different private lives behind the image, where suppression of the truth is a natural byproduct of the mythmaking process.  In this manner, the nation’s confidence is propped up by political lies and distorted exaggerations, where one assumes this is preferable to hearing the unvarnished truth.  That historical argument rages on today, with battlegrounds drawn over how to best teach the touchy issues of slavery and Indian atrocities, long suppressed and glossed over in an attempt to present a more favorable view of Manifest Destiny, which is at the root of protecting white privilege, one of the fundamental pillars of white supremacy and racism.  In the march for social justice, it’s hard to overcome generations of imposed racial bias without identifying the barbarism of these historical atrocities, which were major turning points in history, turning a blind eye to the truth and projecting a more patriotic and heroic version that essentially whitewashes history.    

Adapted by New York Times film reviewer Frank S. Nugent from James Warner Bellah’s series of cavalry stories that were being printed in The Saturday Evening Post, specifically a story entitled Massacre, where it should be pointed out that Bellah was an overt racist for whom Indians were filthy savages.  Nugent worked with Ford on 11 films, yet they had a difficult working relationship, as did nearly everyone who worked with Ford, credited with introducing greater complexity in the way he portrayed women and relationships, altogether missing in other scripts, while minimizing the enduring legacy of Ford’s racism which had such a profound influence on the western genre’s portrayal of Indians.  Fonda had worked with Ford before in My Darling Clementine (1946), yet easily the biggest surprise is the presence of Shirley Temple in one of her first adult roles as Thursday’s teenage daughter Philadelphia, who brings an uplifting female spirit and wild-eyed optimism to the role usually absent in Ford films.  Her blatant sensuality out in the open frontier in an outpost manned by battle-hardened men is a humorous diversion, where you wonder why Thursday would even bring her out there, as she’s sure to attract attention, so we’re not at all shocked when he forbids perspective suitors from seeing her.  Of course, that only intensifies male interest, pulling Dick Foran out of the guard house to sing an Irish serenade, Oh, Genevieve YouTube (2:00), working here with her real-life husband John Agar as the officer fresh out of West Point, Lt. Mickey O’Rourke, who develops a romantic interest with Temple, who was pregnant at the time, though not recognizable, where she was worried about wearing those tight corsets.  They went through a highly publicized divorce just a year later, after which she retired altogether from making films, working in television briefly before embarking on a highly successful diplomatic career.  Still, it’s something of a shock to see her in a John Ford film, as she is everything John Ford is not, innocent and radiantly beautiful, showing great empathy, demonstrating a rare ability to work well with people from all walks of life, even working with Ford earlier in WEE WILLIE WINKIE (1937).  But despite an early presence, Ford abandons all the female characters, turning this into an all-male adventure on the high frontier.  Making things interesting, Lt. Mickey O’Rourke is the son who now outranks his father, Sgt. Michael O’Rourke (Ward Bond), a former officer and recipient of the Medal of Honor (which completely blindsides Thursday), where family life emphasizes the presence of near saintly women steadfastly offering their support of the men while providing maternal love and care, providing a domesticated home life out in the middle of nowhere, embodying a family ideal that redeems the frontier’s harshness.  As the telegraph lines are cut, the Fort had no knowledge of Thursday’s arrival, so he catches them completely offguard by uprooting the existing chain of command and immediately implementing his own strict authoritarian regimen, contrasted by the drunken buffoonery of Victor McLaglen’s Sgt. Mulcahy, showing deferential treatment towards any Irish recruits, where the initial Army drills and cavalry riding lessons go haywire, turning into a slapstick physical comedy.  The social divide between the officer corps and the regular enlisted men couldn’t be any deeper, accentuated by Thursday’s own condescending views, putting himself and his own disdainful arrogance above all others, barking out orders, refusing to listen to the cautionary advice of his fellow soldiers who actually know the lay of the land, in effect keeping him isolated from reality, living in his own deluded world where Indians showing any resistance to Western expansion are viewed as bloodthirsty savages, ignorant and contemptible creatures living like animals who are completely subhuman, incapable of logic or reason, little more than children requiring paternalistic supervision under the Army’s control.  Any infractions of the rules are subject to punishment, which he intends to inflict with impunity.   

In military thinking, the higher-ranking soldier is always in authority, implementing the chain of command throughout the ranks by privileged status, where duty and order always come before the individual, with authority superseding any other existing morality.  Sounding dubious at best, showing little wiggle room for demonstrating flexibility under changing circumstances, this is the death knell for those serving under Thursday’s command.  York on the other hand, plays his hand beautifully, establishing a trustworthy relationship with Cochise (communicating in fluent Spanish), one of mutual respect, as he understands there are bellicose young warriors who urge military confrontation, refusing to buckle under the Army’s command, yet the revered older Apache chief commands greater respect, having inflicted and received plenty of damage, yet his tribe has never been defeated militarily.  He knows all too well, however, the cost of perpetual engagement, never having any peace, while regularly incurring traumatic losses.  This earned wisdom is what makes him a formidable leader and a great chief, as he’s been there and seen it all.  York shares that acumen, having been through the slaughters of the Civil War, while also knowing the heavy cost of Indian skirmishes, knowing full well their treacherous history, as their agreements with the American government have routinely been dishonored, while they’ve continually been underestimated and devalued by the Army.  One common thread throughout all John Ford westerns is how Indians are depicted as less than human, yet soldiers fighting for the Confederacy are honored and revered.  It was not unusual for career soldiers in the Confederacy to join the Union army after the war, although at lesser rank, yet they are always viewed with distinguished service records.  Thursday in particular shows utter disdain for the Apache military prowess or strategy, despite being outnumbered four to one, thinking one cavalry soldier is worth ten Indians.  So when Thursday uses York as a peacemaker to lure the Apaches back to American soil, that’s the break Thursday was looking for, intentionally violating his promise of peace and subjecting them to a treacherous attack under a flag of truce, seething with contempt when questioned by York who gave his word, “Your word to a breech-clouted savage?  An illiterate, uncivilized murderer and treaty-breaker?  There’s no question of honor, sir, between an American officer and Cochise.”  What follows is inevitable, disregarding York’s advice, sending him back to the wagons, as he runs headstrong into the teeth of the enemy, driven by a racist belief in genetic superiority, in his eyes all but assured of victory and glory, sabers raised, remaining defiant even when whittled down to a small embattled group on the ground, having abandoned their horses, FORT APACHE | Charge into a Trap YouTube (4:19), basically sitting ducks encircled by larger forces that surround them, completely swallowing them up in a cloud of dust, FORT APACHE | Col. Thursday's Last Stand YouTube (3:35).  Disgraced by his own arrogance, showing no regard for the advice offered or an appropriate reading of the land, calling Cochise “a recalcitrant swine without honor,” it’s a foolhardy mission driven by egotism and blind prejudice, needlessly taking his own men with him, refusing to give the enemy (or his own men) the respect they deserve.  Yet the newspapers paint a picture of Thursday leading a heroic charge, fighting gallantly to the bitter end, displaying valor under fire, his painted portrait hanging on the wall, creating a jingoistic portrayal of a new American hero, that rare caliber of leader that commands legendary respect, a martyr finally accepted into the cavalry ranks as part of their inherent character and tradition, but only with this elevated depiction of his death.  Inventing a mythical narrative is a byproduct of American journalism desperate to sell a story, willing to sell their soul for a fabricated lie, which becomes read in storybooks across the land, an example of American ingenuity and enterprise and a paean to American imperialism, constructing a hero out of utter stupidity and disgrace.  Altogether violent and grim, this film offers a glimpse of what could have been had history played out differently and Indians were actually accorded some degree of respect.