This is an odd film. Not just because it was directed by Edgar G. Ullmer or because it's about Mexicans, but because of the absence of the usual stereotypes -- the guilty hitchhiker, the savage woman -- whose characters never change, or change only under the force of circumstances. Arthur Kennedy, finally in a lead role, is a kind of fatalistic bandido. His partner in a train robbery is mortally wounded and Kennedy comforts him cheerfully with visions of the paradise to come.
Then he meets a younger, married couple -- Betta St. John and Eugene Iglesias. The wife is seen carrying some water to the small farm nearby and is a bit charmed with the glistening white smile that Kennedy's make up throws into prominence, and with his perception. We meet Iglesias, the handsome husband, nineteen years old, bare chested, digging away at a hole to find a well. If the films of the 1950s ever had a set up for a stereotypical happy marriage between peasants, this is it. St. John and Iglesias should be deeply in love, tender with each other, hard-working, honest helpmates. Maybe the Dionysian Kennedy will seduce the wife, leading to a physical confrontation, or at any rate a moral one, that Kennedy will lose.
But no. St. John confesses that she grew up on a hacienda where the boss and his family treated her as a whore and that she was part of the bargain when the patron sold this bit of land to Iglesias. They've been married for less than a year and were strangers to one another. They still are in some respects. Iglesias, on his part, orders her around like a servant, knocks her about, and shows her no affection but, as she says, it's better to be a servant in one's own home.
There's another feature of this color Western that should be mentioned. There's the usual stilted writing we always associated with the natives in early films. "Si, we wheel prosper, if the good God permits." "You take the bed. I wheel slip on the floor." That sort of thing. But the dialog has moments when it scintillates with authenticity. The writers know that some tortillas are better than others, and they're entirely right. Few things beat a fresh, warm tortilla with a pat of butter. Iglesias praises the home-made pulque and describes its being sucked from the green cactus lined up like little soldiers in their green uniforms. And the pulque itself looks like milk.
The production design and set dressing are exceptional too, if maybe a bit more colorful than the real thing. So is wardrobe, except for St. John's stylish faux Latin blouse and skirt. (She resembles Teresa Wright only less -- innocent.) The men are dressed like the poor people they are, with baggy pants and hats that are made of ragged straw or are beat-up sombreros.
The characters are subject to sudden shifts of mood. Kennedy is capable of sudden outbursts of momentary anger for small reason. And the innocent young farmer, for instance, is swept up in an altercation between Kennedy and a man who tries to cheat him. He's scared to death but does his part, and later he and Kennedy get joyously drunk together. A few hours later, Iglesias starts thinking about the things he could do with the farm if only he had all the loot that Kennedy is carrying around with him. So he hides a pistola under his serape and steals outside to shoot and kill the sleeping Kennedy, while promising God he will help build the new altar. The anticipated good guy and bad guy are the reverse of the initial set up.
These metamorphoses are reasonable enough. Who can tell with certainty what an acquaintance will do or say next? We're all part devil and part angel. And the loving wife? She begs Kennedy to take her with him when he's about to leave, not because she loves him and his pheromones but because she hates the farm and her husband. I just don't know whether these conversions are deliberate, in which case I applaud them, or whether they're just examples of sloppy plotting.
None of the performances are outstanding, and one of them, Iglesias', is downright crummy. Ulmer's direction is competent, nothing more. But the script is edgy enough to keep a viewer involved until the inevitable shoot out which, consistent with the rest of the film, isn't exactly what you'd expect.
Then he meets a younger, married couple -- Betta St. John and Eugene Iglesias. The wife is seen carrying some water to the small farm nearby and is a bit charmed with the glistening white smile that Kennedy's make up throws into prominence, and with his perception. We meet Iglesias, the handsome husband, nineteen years old, bare chested, digging away at a hole to find a well. If the films of the 1950s ever had a set up for a stereotypical happy marriage between peasants, this is it. St. John and Iglesias should be deeply in love, tender with each other, hard-working, honest helpmates. Maybe the Dionysian Kennedy will seduce the wife, leading to a physical confrontation, or at any rate a moral one, that Kennedy will lose.
But no. St. John confesses that she grew up on a hacienda where the boss and his family treated her as a whore and that she was part of the bargain when the patron sold this bit of land to Iglesias. They've been married for less than a year and were strangers to one another. They still are in some respects. Iglesias, on his part, orders her around like a servant, knocks her about, and shows her no affection but, as she says, it's better to be a servant in one's own home.
There's another feature of this color Western that should be mentioned. There's the usual stilted writing we always associated with the natives in early films. "Si, we wheel prosper, if the good God permits." "You take the bed. I wheel slip on the floor." That sort of thing. But the dialog has moments when it scintillates with authenticity. The writers know that some tortillas are better than others, and they're entirely right. Few things beat a fresh, warm tortilla with a pat of butter. Iglesias praises the home-made pulque and describes its being sucked from the green cactus lined up like little soldiers in their green uniforms. And the pulque itself looks like milk.
The production design and set dressing are exceptional too, if maybe a bit more colorful than the real thing. So is wardrobe, except for St. John's stylish faux Latin blouse and skirt. (She resembles Teresa Wright only less -- innocent.) The men are dressed like the poor people they are, with baggy pants and hats that are made of ragged straw or are beat-up sombreros.
The characters are subject to sudden shifts of mood. Kennedy is capable of sudden outbursts of momentary anger for small reason. And the innocent young farmer, for instance, is swept up in an altercation between Kennedy and a man who tries to cheat him. He's scared to death but does his part, and later he and Kennedy get joyously drunk together. A few hours later, Iglesias starts thinking about the things he could do with the farm if only he had all the loot that Kennedy is carrying around with him. So he hides a pistola under his serape and steals outside to shoot and kill the sleeping Kennedy, while promising God he will help build the new altar. The anticipated good guy and bad guy are the reverse of the initial set up.
These metamorphoses are reasonable enough. Who can tell with certainty what an acquaintance will do or say next? We're all part devil and part angel. And the loving wife? She begs Kennedy to take her with him when he's about to leave, not because she loves him and his pheromones but because she hates the farm and her husband. I just don't know whether these conversions are deliberate, in which case I applaud them, or whether they're just examples of sloppy plotting.
None of the performances are outstanding, and one of them, Iglesias', is downright crummy. Ulmer's direction is competent, nothing more. But the script is edgy enough to keep a viewer involved until the inevitable shoot out which, consistent with the rest of the film, isn't exactly what you'd expect.