Slow, boring and visually dead, this stinker doesn't come close to the original. The reason isn't mysterious: the director Ferdinando Baldi was no Sergio Corbucci.
An assistant of the great Leone, Corbucci was a poet of ugliness. His mud-soaked towns, leering hookers, sadistic racists, and unforgettable image of Franco Nero dragging his coffin through it all made Django (1966) a high point in the genre. This was the western without Hollywood's vigorous airbrushing: Django an anti-hero shooting holes in the Klan and unsavory allies alike, his penitential coffin hauled through the muck of a corrupt post-Civil War society.
Baldi is just a hack trying his best. Operating with no budget and rather less of a script, he turns in something like a bad, overlong TV episode. You get the watchable Terrence Hill, but few will want to suffer the bland cinematography and craptacular pace.
An assistant of the great Leone, Corbucci was a poet of ugliness. His mud-soaked towns, leering hookers, sadistic racists, and unforgettable image of Franco Nero dragging his coffin through it all made Django (1966) a high point in the genre. This was the western without Hollywood's vigorous airbrushing: Django an anti-hero shooting holes in the Klan and unsavory allies alike, his penitential coffin hauled through the muck of a corrupt post-Civil War society.
Baldi is just a hack trying his best. Operating with no budget and rather less of a script, he turns in something like a bad, overlong TV episode. You get the watchable Terrence Hill, but few will want to suffer the bland cinematography and craptacular pace.