If you want to hate the western genre forever, go ahead and rent The Halliday Brand. Otherwise, do everyone a favor (especially Joseph Cotten and Ward Bond) and forget it was ever made. I don't know what was wrong with the director, but this might be the worst filmed old movie I've ever seen. Joseph H. Lewis, famous for turning low-budget pictures into palatable ones, didn't give his magic touch to this drama. Perhaps he only had $5,000 in the entire budget, and he didn't have any money to film close-ups or medium shots. Perhaps he did film the variety, but there was a terrible fire and all the footage was lost. Or perhaps he accidentally recorded the rehearsals while the camera was poised for the wide shot, and by the time he realized the error, they were out of time and money.
If you've ever wondered whether close-ups were necessary to a movie, they certainly are. Joseph Cotten, Ward Bond, Betsy Blair, and Viveca Lindfors had clenched fists, long pauses after each line (which actors sometimes provide in long shots to make it easier on the editor), and often turned their backs on the camera because they assumed the subsequent close-up would make up the difference. I felt so sorry for these actors.
The story itself was also difficult to root for. Ward plays the powerful patriarch in the western town, and his daughter Betsy Blair falls for a half-Indian hired hand. They sneak around and kiss each other while hiding in the man's house - unacceptable behavior no matter what color her boyfriend's skin is. Also, this was a period piece, during a time when a woman's reputation mattered. Also, her father's a sheriff. And yet we're supposed to be on Betsy's side when Ward forbids the match. As a loving, responsible father, is he supposed to encourage his daughter to be ostracized from the entire town, raising mixed children who are ridiculed by their peers? Her husband could easily be lynched, for daring to marry such a prominent white man's daughter.
I sat through this entire movie for love of Ward Bond. He died two years later, and I certainly missed his energy in the 1960s. Thankfully, George Kennedy quickly stepped up the plate and served as a replacement. But I treasure Ward while I can - just not in this movie.
If you've ever wondered whether close-ups were necessary to a movie, they certainly are. Joseph Cotten, Ward Bond, Betsy Blair, and Viveca Lindfors had clenched fists, long pauses after each line (which actors sometimes provide in long shots to make it easier on the editor), and often turned their backs on the camera because they assumed the subsequent close-up would make up the difference. I felt so sorry for these actors.
The story itself was also difficult to root for. Ward plays the powerful patriarch in the western town, and his daughter Betsy Blair falls for a half-Indian hired hand. They sneak around and kiss each other while hiding in the man's house - unacceptable behavior no matter what color her boyfriend's skin is. Also, this was a period piece, during a time when a woman's reputation mattered. Also, her father's a sheriff. And yet we're supposed to be on Betsy's side when Ward forbids the match. As a loving, responsible father, is he supposed to encourage his daughter to be ostracized from the entire town, raising mixed children who are ridiculed by their peers? Her husband could easily be lynched, for daring to marry such a prominent white man's daughter.
I sat through this entire movie for love of Ward Bond. He died two years later, and I certainly missed his energy in the 1960s. Thankfully, George Kennedy quickly stepped up the plate and served as a replacement. But I treasure Ward while I can - just not in this movie.