DVD-Laser Disc Newsletter Special Edition: Westerns!

More like Germany’s answer to Jules Verne than to Louis L’Amour, Karl May was an enormously popular bestselling German writer who wrote adventure stories about places he never actually visited, including, but not exclusively, the early American West. His books were slamdunk properties for aspiring filmmakers, but it was in the early Sixties, when his characters entered the public domain and the German Central Cinema Company, or CCC, started an aggressively budgeted series of films based upon his books, that what is considered to be the definitive motion picture adaptations were created. Seven of those films have been gathered in the four-platter The Masters of Cinema Series Blu-ray boxed set released by Eureka!, Adventure Calls! Karl May At CCC (UPC#760137206460, $110).

All of the films are letterboxed with an aspect ratio 2.35:1 and all have very nice color transfers. Sometimes parts of the picture will be soft, but that appears to be a shortcoming of the cinematography and not the transfer. The images are not slick, but colors are fresh and accurate, and you can see all of the blue eyes on the Indians. Once in a while you can spot a member of the crew ducking behind a prop, or a rock face that wiggles when someone bumps against it, but American westerns are filled with those sorts of bloopers as well. The monophonic sound is consistently adequate, although the sound mixes are rarely creative. The films are in German with optional English subtitles.

The flagship film from 1964, Old Shatterhand, stars Les Barker as the title character, dressed up in buckskin like Alan Ladd in Shane and finding himself embroiled in one of the classic standard western plots, where bad guys who want to steal Indian land stage massacres to make it look like the Indians did it, to foster a war between the army protecting the settlers and the Indians. Running 121 minutes, with Exit Music, the plot is barely coherent enough to hold the film together and is ultimately of little importance—its conclusion is wrapped up in some quick dialog describing events that happened off screen—while the essential appeal of the film is its grand landscapes (albeit peppered with some amusingly phony cactuses) and idealized atmosphere. Indeed, you don’t so much remember the movie’s plot as you do its lovely widescreen images. Directed by Hugo Fregonese, the heroes are presented almost as Greek gods, cavorting in a paradise (prairie fields look more like lawns). Pierre Brice plays the soul mate of Barker’s character, an Indian Chief called ‘Winnetou.’ Daliah Lavi plays an Indian princess of some sort, her double’s nude swimming scene providing the only difference, other than the widescreen framing, from an American television show (it is the only skin you get to see in the entire collection). Guy Madison is the villainous cavalry officer conspiring with the bad guys to stage the incidents.

In the opening scene, a boy watches from a hiding place as his mother and father are murdered, but he never seems particularly broken up about it, and that is the film’s primary drawback. The drama is superficial. The posing is wonderful, and many of the actors are personable, especially Barker and Brice, but everyone is pretty much going through the motions, and if you are not fanatical about the basic concept of Germans staging a widescreen imitation western, you are going to get a little antsy (it plays better in your memory than it does as you are watching it). At the same time that this film was being made, Sergio Leone was making his first Clint Eastwood feature, but that film had innovative stylism, a tight and clever plot, and characters open to emotional investment. Leone was driving the genre into the future, while Fregonese is locked in the past and facing backwards.

Riz Ortolani’s musical score is orchestrated to sound like Elmer Bernstein and continually riffs off of the edges of the folk tune, Red River Valley. As German film expert David Kalat explains in a terrific commentary track, the first of the breakout Sixties May films was made by another company, which had secured the rights to May’s western novels (and indeed, it was Italian participation in that film that kicked off the Spaghetti westerns), but since the characters had fallen into the public domain, CCC was able to make their own Shatterhand and Winnetou feature. It was the success of the German westerns that inspired the success of the Italian westerns, which eventually penetrated the American boxoffice. In America, westerns had largely retreated to television, but this insurgence inspired a new enthusiasm in Hollywood, leading to films such as True Grit, Hang ʼEm High and The Wild Bunch. Kalat continues, “Note what a range of different tones and styles those films represent. They’re all westerns, but they’re also all aimed at very different audiences, which means that if you’re of the mind that this film compares poorly to those later Hollywood westerns, that’s a fair enough opinion, but I think you need to acknowledge that those later Hollywood westerns probably wouldn’t have existed if not for this film.” Kalat also provides an extensive history of May, the films, the cast, Fregonese and other details about the production, which are also summarized is a fairly extensive 25-minute overview ‘introduction.’

The other film on the platter is a great deal more entertaining, Winnetou and Shatterhand in the Valley of Death (Winnetou und Shatterhand im Tat der Toten), from 1968. Directed by Harald Reinl and running a more sensible 89 minutes, the film may not have any more emotional depth than Old Shatterhand, but the action scenes are unfailingly exciting (long before Raiders of the Lost Ark, the heroes and villains must ride down a canyon filled with snakes) and plentiful. To clear the name of her dead father, a woman asks Barker and Brice’s character to help her locate where her father stored Army gold for safe keeping, which leads them all on an adventure across deserts and canyons with bandits, bad Indians and others on their trail. The important thing is that the film is decently paced, so that the fights, shoot outs and other challenges continually keep the viewer engaged with the characters and their experiences. A character played by Ralf Wolter used for comedic relief in the first film returns to fill the same function in this film, although the humor is broad and cultural, and will not be to everyone’s liking. Karin Dor costars, and while Martin Böttcher’s musical score may be less noticeable than Ortolani’s music, it moves the film along more effectively by not calling attention to itself.

Both films have alternate English dubbed tracks. A 5-minute introduction to the second movie is included, and the platter also contains a quick 2-minute profile of Lavi about her singing career and a very nice 18-minute retrospective look at the production of both films featuring interviews with many of the participants.

May didn’t just write westerns, and CCC didn’t just pursue them. Barker also stars in May’s The Shoot (Der Schut), a 1964 film on the second platter directed by Robert Siodmak, which is set on the coast of the Adriatic (they use the same locations as the westerns—take down the cactus, put up some garlic strings, and you’ve got the Balkans), and he is essentially the same Nineteenth Century character. At one point, someone even explains that he is known in America as ‘Shatterhand,’ although here he is called ‘ Kara Ben Nemsi.’ The film runs 118 minutes but plays pretty much like a cliffhanger serial without too many interesting cliffhangers. It tries very hard to be fun but is bland and illogical as often as it is more invigorating. A bandit king who has disguised himself as an important businessman abducts a friend of Barker’s character, so Barker’s character sets off to retrieve him, running into various problems along the way. The friend’s fiancée, played by Marianne Hold, also goes off to look for him. There are several comedic characters, as well, including a Muslim sidekick for Barker’s character, played by Wolter, who is occasionally ridiculed for the practices of his faith, and a pair of fastidious Englishmen—an aristocrat and his servant played by Dieter Borsche and Chris Howland—who are also ripe for cultural ridicule. Marie Versini and Maria Grazia Francia are featured, as well. The characters ride horses and shoot guns, so the film may be an eastern, but it’s still a western. There are plenty of action scenes, and the set designs and widescreen vistas are appealing, but more often than not the plot will simply leap ahead from one situation to the next, cutting back and forth between all of the various characters, without explaining in sufficient detail how situations were resolved. There is another workable musical score by Böttcher.

With Lawrence of Arabia on the brain, Through Wild Kurdistan (Durchs Wilde Kurdistan) from 1965 opens with an Arab prince shooting at another man who is drinking from his well. Barker and Wolter return as the same characters they played in the previous film, as do Borsche and Howland. Versini is also featured. While the film was shot in Spain and is set farther East than The Shoot was, and has much more desert, it still seems to be located in the same general fictional region. Running 103 minutes, the story is better focused—the prince is arrested, and Barker’s character sets out to rescue him—and the supporting stories weave in and out of his instead of going off on their own tangents. There is less lampooning of Islamic practices and more of just a general celebration of the exotic world of the Middle East through European eyes. A few of the stunts aren’t bad, and the action is fairly constant. The film was directed by Franz Joseph Gottlieb. The musical score, credited to Mordechei Olari-Nozyk and Raimund Rosenberger, is appealing, with whiffs of Arabian melodies from time to time. And speaking of Jules Verne, there is a lovely sequence where Borsche and Howland’s characters get out of jam in a hot air balloon. The miniatures are inept, but that just makes it all the more cute.

The Shoot has an alternate English track, but Through Wild Kurdistan does not. Also featured are another two trailers, a 3-minute introduction to The Shoot, another 3-minute introduction to Through Wild Kurdistan, a minute-long black-and-white clip of The Shoot receiving an award, and a good 21-minute German retrospective piece about shooting both films.

And then, much to the surprise of anyone who has just finished watching Through Wild Kurdistan, the supposedly dead villain is back and persuades the authorities that Barker’s character and the prince want to rob a site in the desert that holds valuables, when actually they are working to prevent the villain from robbing it in The Kingdom of the Silver Lion (Im Reiche Des Silbernen Löwen) on the third platter. There are several distinctive and engaging sequences, including a perilous journey across salt flats, and a marvelous, elaborate battle in the final act. The narrative is focused and the film is even more entertaining than its immediate predecessor. The actors thought they were making a single movie and only got paid for one, which led to legal problems later on.

Also featured is a 3-minute introduction to the film, a trailer, a 3-minute piece on the film’s restoration, a good 15-minute talk about producer Arthur Brauner’s career by his daughter, Alice, and a 26-minute summary of Siodmak’s life and career.

Through Wild Kurdistan ends resolutely, and it is only at the beginning of In the Kingdom of the Silver Lion where the villain pulls himself up and dusts himself off after a hundred-foot drop off a cliff face that the tale continues. The two films on the fourth platter, however, the 101-minute The Treasure of the Aztecs (Der Schatz der Azteken) and the 99-minute The Pyramid of the Sun Go (Die Pyramide des Sonnengottes), both directed in 1965 by Siodmak, are a single feature. The first film concludes with a genuine cliffhanger and after an 8-minute recap, the second film picks up where it left off. Barker plays another May character, ‘Doctor Sterneau’ (those who have visions of keeping the lasagna warm at an office party are excused), who acts as a catalyst, facilitating the romances in the story without taking part himself. Retrieving the cactus from storage, the film, shot in Yugoslavia, is set in 1864 in Mexico. Barker’s character, carrying a letter from Abraham Lincoln, aids Benito Juarez in his rebellion against the French who were running the country at the time. The French want a hidden temple of Aztec gold to support their efforts, the rebels want it to support their cause and bandits want it for themselves. The Aztec princess is in love with the duplicitous son of a count, who is in cohorts with the French, while a young officer with Aztec blood is riding with Barker’s character and supporting the rebel cause. Hence, the films have more valid drama than the previous features (there is another, similarly conflicted romance, and filial conflicts, as well—the count does not approve of what his son is up to), and while the amount of mindless action is scaled back accordingly, there are plenty of important action scenes that mean something to the story. Wolter is featured as a comical sidekick for Barker’s character—a cuckoo clock salesman—but even his shtick is less intrusive and more integrated with the narrative than such characters have been in the other films.

Despite the continuing story, the second film is disappointingly bland. Barker is not in it much for the first hour, and the plot is pretty much just a cycle of bad guys and good guys getting captured by the other side and then escaping. The promising dramatic components of the first film wither away, and while the film’s designs are reasonably appealing, its energy subsides.

Kalat supplies another good commentary for Treasure of the Aztecs, but while going over the general history of all of the CCC May films and particularly the ones included in the set, he does not elaborate much upon Pyramid of the Sun God and concentrates mostly on the film at hand. He talks about the array of screenwriters and directors who were initially hired before the final ones produced the completed work, and he supplies detailed biographies of many of the cast members. He also talks quite a bit about the film’s production—the rain and dark clouds in Yugoslavia were not a deliberate artistic choice from Siodmak even though it did dovetail with his established tonal preferences—and he addresses the basic appeal the films are intended to convey. “These Nineteenth Century pulp adventures by Karl May are direct antecedents to superhero culture. The best way to understand these characters is through the lens of superheroes, not through the lens of genuine history. We are expected to overlook that and just thrill at the adventure that is in front of us.”

Aztecs has a 3-minute introduction. Sun God has a 4-minute introduction. Also featured on the platter are trailers for each film and a 7-minute analysis of the similarities and differences between the films and May’s writing.

Glenn Ford became a quintessential Hollywood star of the Fifties with his clean cut looks and youthful maturity, often conveying the feel of an earnest white collar executive whose graduate education had been interrupted by the War. He was a fine actor although, inexplicably, he was never nominated for an Oscar and never even received an honorary statuette. He starred in the two greatest Columbia Pictures film noir features, Gilda (May 26) and The Big Heat (Aug 25), but his definitive role was as a school teacher in the breakthrough MGM youth drama, Blackboard Jungle (Jun 05). Like almost every male movie star of his day, he was no stranger to westerns and in 1957 he made the fourth of his certifiable masterpieces, playing the villain for Columbia in Delmer Daves’s 3:10 to Yuma. And oh, what a villain. He is perfect for the role while at the same time seeming—deliberately—out of time and place as the clean cut leader of a large band of outlaws, who approach their job, and any challenge, with strategy, cunning and power.

Based upon a novel by Elmore Leonard, Ford’s character acts just like a ruthless executive, plotting three steps ahead of his opposition, and yet comporting himself with grace and reserve when he does not see an escape. Van Heflin is the film’s hero, a rancher who witnesses the gang hold up a stage and is able to alert the posse ahead of when Ford’s character had anticipated they would catch up to his trail. While his gang leaves with plenty of time, he lingers in town to romance a girl tending bar (an incredibly sexy sequence even though you never see a thing) and is caught. In need of money because a drought has been creating hardship for his stock, Heflin’s character volunteers to transport Ford’s character to another town where the eponymous train can safely take him to justice and prison, while his gang follows the protocols Ford’s character had established to free him before the train arrives. Indeed, on one level, Ford’s character can be seen to represent the corporations that had taken over America in the Fifties (Ford’s character keeps increasing the amount he’s willing to part with as a bribe) while Heflin feels like the common worker who is just trying to feed his family and make a life for them, and it is that subliminal undercurrent that makes the impact of the 90-minute feature, which otherwise presents itself as a crisp, straightforward, step-by-step dramatic thriller with horses and shootouts, all the more powerful and enduring.

Felicia Farr, Richard Jaeckel and Robert Emhardt costar, with Henry Jones delivering an especially nice performance as the town drunk. Columbia and The Criterion Collection have released 3:10 to Yuma as a two-platter 4K Blu-ray (UPC#715515329514, $50). Letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 1.85:1, the black-and-white picture is immaculate and thrilling in its own right. The very first shot of the stage crossing the horizon is transporting, and there is not a frame in the film that is not perfect either compositionally or presentationally. The standard Blu-ray platter, which is also available separately (UPC#715515105811, $40), looks great, but it is noticeably grainier and there are fleeting markings that are nowhere to be seen on the 4K version. The standard monophonic audio track is fine, which is what both discs default to, but there is also a 5.1-channel DTS track bringing an engaging dimensionality to George Duning’s musical score (including Frankie Laine’s marvelous version of the title song) and the environmental sounds. While it is possible to feel that the surround audio distances a viewer from the drama because of the film’s classic black-and-white western trappings, the separations are such a pleasure that it is a worthwhile trade off. There are optional English subtitles. Also featured are an excellent 13-minute interview with Leonard about his early career, the film (the producers wanted Ford for Van Heflin’s part, but he smartly held out for the meatier role), the inferiority of the 2007 remake and the explosion of westerns on TV; and a lovely 15-minute interview with Ford’s son, Peter, about the film, his father’s career and his life.

Ford is a general store owner in a small town in MGM’s 1956 The Fastest Gun Alive, available from Warner Bros. as a Warner WB Archive Collection Blu-ray (UPC#810134941595, $24), and while she isn’t showing yet, Jeanne Crain is his pregnant wife. Superbly directed by Russell Rouse (overlapping dialog, dynamic camera moves, and a gripping narrative exposition), the film opens with an unshaven Broderick Crawford calling out a gunman with a reputation in another town and shooting him down, and then cuts to Ford’s character, aiming at rocks in the desert. The film essentially equates gunfighting with alcoholism, and while Crain’s character knows about her husband’s prowess with a firearm in the past, she also believes that he had discarded it and has sworn off ever touching one again. As the other men in town boast about doing manly things in their vocations, however, his shame of being a mere storekeeper starts to bubble up and he reaches the point, after a few drinks, where he just has to show off again. And after robbing a bank with a pair of cohorts (nicely played by John Dehner and Noah Beery), Crawford’s character is on the run.

The 90-minute film takes its time developing the supporting characters in the town. The young Russ Tamblyn has a complete and highly athletic performance number during a barn dance sequence. Leif Erickson, John Doucette, Dub Taylor and Harvey Maxwell are also featured. If you really start to examine the logic of the backstory, it doesn’t make all that much sense—Ford’s character has never killed anyone before, but under another name was a sought after opponent by those who wanted to prove something—but what is important in the film is the human and social drama. It isn’t just Ford’s character or Crain’s character who must make a decision, but every last member of the town, and it is their collective soul that is threatened when they are all gathered for church services on Sunday morning and Crawford’s character and his companions wander down the main street to find some fresh horses (the community actually gets off a lot better than it does in most great westerns). The way a western can boil a drama down to its simplest elements, and yet still communicate the full power of its human emotions and the complete excitement of its action, is why it will endure as an reliable form of entertainment for ages to come. As much as many of the best ones, The Fasted Gun Alive demonstrates once again why that is true.

The black-and-white picture is letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 1.85:1. The image is crisp and flawless, adding not just to the subliminal impact of the drama, but to the texture of every set and location. We reviewed a Warner DVD in May 12, which looked pretty good, but it is not as impeccable or as sharp as the BD, nor is the monophonic sound as strong, which adds to the appeal of Andre Previn’s musical score. Along with optional English subtitles and a trailer, there are two MGM color Tom and Jerry cartoons from 1956, both letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 2.35:1—the 7-minute Blue Cat Blues (the mouse watches the cat fall in love with an unobtainable girl cat) and the 6-minute Down Beat Bear (the mouse and the cat are battling for control of the music played on a radio when an escaped dancing bear interferes with the cat’s efforts).

Ford’s projection of sensitivity is ideal for his role in Daves’s western melodrama, Jubal, a 1956 Columbia production that has been released on Blu-ray by Columbia and Criterion (UPC#715515106115, $30). The film has a great cast, even if some of the other performances are over the top. Ernest Borgnine plays the jolly owner of a big ranch who finds Ford’s character at death’s door on a trail and nurses him back to health, eventually making him foreman of the ranch, much to the chagrin of one of the other hands, played by Rod Steiger as if he was still doing ‘Judd’ in Oklahoma!. Valery French plays the itchy wife of Borgnine’s character, who was content before to canoodle with Steiger’s character, but can’t stand him now that Ford’s character is around. Ford’s character, however, is more interested in a pioneer girl played by Felicia Farr, whose wagon train has stopped nearby for a spell. The big news, however, is that Charles Bronson is also featured in a good sized part as another cowhand who was riding with the wagon train but accepts a job at the ranch, and backs up Ford’s character in more than one tight squeeze. He and Ford have this fantastic routine that happens three times in the film, where Bronson tosses a gun to Ford, Ford catches it and immediately fires, hitting his target straight on each time. It is the sort of thing that makes you love movies in general and westerns in particular.

Running 101 minutes, the film’s blend of action and passion is greatly enhanced by a wonderful stereo audio track, which brings a swelling dimensionality to David Raskin’s musical score and effectively embellishes everything from the lovely location footage to the character conflicts and horsemanship. Presented in letterboxed format with an aspect ratio of about 2.55:1, the color transfer is adequate most of the time, although it is always a bit on the light side, and looks rather grainy in some shots. Overall, however, the image is in good enough condition to support the sound, which is what really sells the film’s enjoyable blend of frontier jealousy and romance. The optional English subtitles must be activated manually.

The enormously entertaining 1949 Lust for Gold has Ida Lupino top billed with Ford, although Ford doesn’t show up until 20 minutes into the 90-minute film and Lupino doesn’t appear until 30 minutes in. Released on DVD by Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment (UPC#043396088603), the film opens in post-War Forties Arizona (the sheriff drives a woody), where a prospector searching for his grandfather’s mine witnesses a murder. After reporting it to the police, he begins researching the past and there is the flashback that tells the meat of the tale, a noirish western in which the owner of a bakery, played by Lupino, seduces an immigrant, played by Ford, who has uncovered a treasure of Apache gold in the hills. Their performances are marvelous. Once that story is finished, the film then returns for some incredible, grip-your-seat-and-cover-your-eyes fistfight stunt work on a high canyon ridge, and the solution to the murder. Hence, from its opening moments, the wraparound story is just as entertaining as the flashback, and allows the film to leap sure footedly from one genre to another. It is enormous fun from beginning to end.

Directed by S. Sylvan Simon, Gig Young with a black mustache co-stars as the useless husband of Lupino’s character, and Edgar Buchanan, Will Geer and Paul Ford (no relation) are also featured. The squared full screen black-and-white picture is sharp and smooth, although there is a somewhat steady presence of minor speckling. Overall, though, the picture looks good and adds to the movie’s atmosphere and entertainment. The monophonic sound is okay, and there are optional English subtitles.

Ford is a villain again in the 1948 Columbia production directed by Henry Levin, The Man from Colorado, released on DVD by Columbia TriStar (UPC#04339604742). He plays a maniacal Union colonel at the end of the Civil War who is made a territorial judge. William Holden is the hero, his second in command, appointed as his marshal, in a sort of Fletcher Christian capacity. Ellen Drew is the woman they both love, Ray Collins is the owner of a mining company who took over the claims of individual soldiers while they were off fighting the war and Buchanan is the local doctor. Ford, who looks even more like Dirk Bogarde with the white highlights in his hair accentuated and his face always being lit from below, gives a bug-eyed performance that is not particularly appealing. Since Holden doesn’t have to go over the edge, he is more likable, but it takes a while in the 98-minute film for him to get wise to the corruption around him, and even longer to act on it.

The image has a stray speckle here and there, but is otherwise in excellent condition. The squared, full screen color picture looks lovely, with vivid Technicolor hues, although that, too, ends up magnifying the somewhat grotesque makeup applied to Ford’s cheeks. The production designs, on the other hand, are terrific, and the film’s action set pieces are stimulating, but as a drama, the story is not all that interesting or convincing. The monophonic sound is okay, and there are optional English and Japanese subtitles.

In the Fifties and early Sixties, WWII hero Audie Murphy starred in a number of westerns at Universal-International, and while they may not be on the same level as the westerns that Randolph Scott made for Ranown (Nov 23), they come awfully darn close. Consistently entertaining, the films are decently performed with a competent mix of valid drama and exciting action. The sweet-faced Murphy makes an ideal hero, his looks often presented in counterpoint to the maturity of his choices, and he embraces each role without restraint, regardless of its challenges. Unlike the Ranown films, Murphy’s Universal westerns had different production teams, but perhaps that makes the consistency of their exceptional appeal all the more impressive.

We reviewed three boxed sets of Murphy westerns on Blu-ray, put out by Universal and Kino Lorber Incorporated as KL Studio Classic titles, in Nov 23, but Audie Murphy Collection IV (UPC#738329270209, $50) hadn’t been issued at that time. We are glad we finally caught up to it, however, because each film is a terrific work of escapist entertainment, loaded with wonderful supporting character actors and rich enough in plot and drama to justify the action scenes. There is no better way to lose yourself in a western than to dive into one of these features. Each film comes in a separate jacket within the collection. The monophonic sound on each is reasonably strong and solid, and each has optional English subtitling and a trailer.

The closest Murphy comes to being in a Ranown film is the 1951 The Cimarron Kid, which was directed by the founder of Ranown, Budd Boetticher. This is a very adult western and will conceivably turn off viewers not prepared for its upended moral perspective. Murphy’s character is an outlaw—he’s forced into it because he can’t catch a break, but still, when it comes time to rob the first bank, he has no compunction about joining in with the other gang members to do it—and the 84-minute film is about the gang’s internal dynamics as they venture into different counties in Oklahoma and the surrounding states to pull off jobs, and then reconnoiter at a secret hideout while lawmen come closer and closer to catching up with them. Hence, the film has plenty of invigorating action scenes—there is one especially grand sequence near the climax that involves one of those rail yard turntables—but that is its justification to explore the personalities and the lifestyles of the gang members and the women who love them. It is said that when an actor plays a villain, he or she cannot see themselves as villains, but must rather view the rest of the world as unfairly working against them, and it is that mindset that Boetticher is able to explore with the plot’s template. One of the gang members (played by Hugh O’Brian, with red hair and a red beard) is a hothead and often does things impulsively without remorse, but the others, and especially Murphy’s character, just go along as if they have no other choice but to rob institutions and shoot the people who are shooting at them. Murphy’s character also has a relationship with the daughter of a rancher who is sympathetic to the outlaws. The more the film advances, the more powerful it becomes, using the western format not just to explore the characters presented, but to explore the inherent flaws of humanity.

Beverly Tyler, Yvette Dugay, Noah Beery and Leif Erickson are among the costars. The picture is presented in a squared full screen format. The Technicolor film looks lovely but imperfect. Some reels are exquisite, while other have very slight color shifts. For the most part, the image is sharp, hues are fresh and fleshtones are accurate. Westerns experts C. Courtney Joyner and Henry Parke provide a great commentary track, talking about all of the supporting players, discussing Boetticher’s early westerns, deconstructing many of his setups, going over Murphy’s career and talent, and also speaking a lot about the film’s historical basis (Murphy’s character rides with the Dalton gang). “Most of the portrayals we see of this robbery and everything to do with the Daltons come from Emmett Dalton’s own book.” “That’s the thing, too. When these films were made, they were only 35-40 some odd years, a little bit more, past the actual event. If you were 80, you could have been a veteran in the Civil War. When movies started, the War between the States only ended 25 years before. So the memories, and the one foot in reality and all of that stuff for westerns made around 1950 and before were often colored by technical advisors and folks who were around at the time this stuff was actually occurring.” “And if they weren’t, their dads were.”

Nathan Juran directed the 1954 Drums across the River, which has a wealth of costars, including Walter Brennan as the father of Murphy’s character, Jay Silverheels (!) as an Indian chief, Lyle Bettger as the scheming villain trying to play the townspeople against the Indians, Regis Toomey as the sheriff, Emile Meyer as the father of the girlfriend of Murphy’s character, played by Lisa Gaye, and O’Brian (dressed in black!) as one the henchmen of Bettger’s character. The town is feeling pressure because the local gold mines are drying up and the only potential sites for a strike are in Indian country, on the other side of the river. Brennan’s character runs a shipping concern and has a decent relationship with the Indians, who will not let their land be prospected. Bettger’s character, who can profit several different ways if there is a war, stages attacks to make it look like the Indians are becoming violent, a problem that is not helped when the aging chief dies and his son, played by Silverheels, takes over. Bettger’s character also abducts Brennan’s character, and Murphy’s character has to pretend to cooperate with the villains out of fear that his father will be harmed. Running a brisk 78 minutes, not only is there a terrific star at each turn, but there are plenty of good fights and shootouts, some pleasing location footage mixed with the standard sets, and there is a narrative that places the heroes and the Indians on an equal footing.

The picture is letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 1.85:1. Fleshtones are accurate and the color transfer is appealing, although the image is a little grainy or otherwise slightly degraded here and there. It still looks great, but it is not as smooth or as pristine as the best picture transfers, and not as fresh looking as Cimarron Kid. Joyner and Parke supply another good commentary track, talking at length about the different members of the cast while also going over Juran’s background, the dynamics of the production, and explaining their enthusiasm for the feature and its contributors.

Withdrawn and often stone quiet, Murphy plays William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid, in the 1950 The Kid from Texas, directed by Kurt Neumann. The film makes a point of dating the events depicted as having happened 70 years previously—in other words, when grandparents in the audience were children—and the same time span bridges the gap between when the film was made and when it first appeared on Blu-ray. The story is dramatized, but like the Old West, it took place within the graspable past. Westerns were hugely popular in the Fifties in part because of the advent of television, but in part because they represented a lost time of childhood and innocent memories, much as the Fifties do now.

Murphy is not presented as an outlaw per se, as he is in Cimarron Kid, but rather as a young, highly competent warrior caught up in the New Mexico Territory range battles, who is eventually betrayed by the wealthy ranchers when his services are no longer required. Gale Storm, who has equal billing, plays the wife of his primary employer, and they have a couple of scenes, although most of their screen time is separate from one another, with her character acting as her husband’s conscience, until he stops listening to her. Albert Dekker, Will Geer, Paul Ford and William Talman costar, and Frank Wilcox comes into the last act to play Pat Garrett. Running 78 minutes, the film works its way through the story with decent amounts of action, and relies upon the characters around Murphy’s character to provide color and emotion, while he remains less expressive and coldly determined. Perhaps Neumann chose to disguise Murphy’s inexperience as an actor at the time, or perhaps he recognized that it was the strongest way to present the character. Murphy became quite good as an actor as the decade advanced and even in Kid from Texas, the less he has to say, the more compelling his charisma becomes.

The squared full screen picture is not just the weakest in the set, but the weakest in any of the Universal Kino collections. The image is always light and pasty, so that while the hues look accurate, their intensity does not. Additionally, there are speckles and other markings spread throughout the program. Film expert Gary Gerani supplies a reasonably good commentary track, going over the backgrounds of the cast and the crew, providing a more detailed biography of Murphy than what Joyner and Parke provide, talking about Bonney’s history, both in real life and on film, and looking at the history of the production, which kickstarted Murphy’s career when studio heads eagerly discovered that he was as appealing to female viewers as he was to male viewers. Gerani also analyzes how Murphy got his foot in the door when it came to being an actor. “[The film’s character,] Billy the Kid, was based upon Billy the Kid. But this screen character was also based on star Audie Murphy, and the parallel between the famous hero and the famous outlaw couldn’t be ignored, nor should it be. It’s what makes this performance captivating and unique. Both Bonney and Murphy were experts at killing other men. No actor, no matter how compelling and talented, could match that look on Murphy’s face when humanity takes a hike and something cold and terrifying takes over. It’s in his eyes. Laurence Olivier couldn’t give you what Audie Murphy provides, just by responding with this kind of expression, or lack of it. Because of his war service, Mr. Murphy beheld and administered violent death on a regular basis, and that’s something they sure as hell can’t teach you in acting school.”

By 1964, Universal’s budgets for Murphy’s films were smaller, but the movies were still fully entertaining. Bullet for a Badman on Universal and Kino’s Audie Murphy Collection V (UPC#738329270414, $50), directed by R.G. Springsteen, has blander cinematography, although the color transfer looks very nice and serves as a viable compensation. The cast is full of television actors, including Darren McGavin, Beverly Owen, Alan Hale, George Tobias and Edward Platt. Nevertheless, the action scenes are rousing and the film eventually becomes a little darker and more violent than TV would likely allow. Murphy’s character is a retired gunfighter who owns a ranch. He is in town when McGavin’s character robs a bank and joins the posse to chase the outlaw and return his haul. Unfortunately, he and McGavin’s characters also have a history, and when they catch up to him, the other members of the posse start thinking about keeping the money for themselves, so that Murphy and McGavin’s characters must collaborate to survive. And just as the conflict comes to a boil, Indians attack. Running 80 minutes, the stars are great fun and the film is consistently lively.

All of the films in the collection have decent monophonic audio tracks and optional English subtitles, and all are accompanied by trailers. The picture on Bullet for a Badman is letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 1.85:1. Western films expert Tony Roan provides a commentary track, summarizing the careers of the various members of the cast and the crew (including the stuntmen), going over what is known about the film’s production history, and occasionally offering his opinion on how the film was executed. “Now R.G. Springteen’s pictures certainly aren’t very flashy looking. His camera always seems to be in the proper place, maybe too proper, giving his films a rather ordinary look.”

In the highly enjoyable 1960 male bonding tale, Seven Ways from Sundown (the title will make total sense once you watch the beginning of the film), Murphy plays a young Texas Ranger, assigned with an older Ranger played by John McIntire to track and apprehend a murderer played by Barry Sullivan. In the first half of the film, Murphy’s character bonds with McIntire’s character and learns about the ways of the world, and then in the second half, while returning him for justice, Murphy’s character bonds with Sullivan’s character, and learns about things from a different perspective. In some respects the film is fairly similar to Bullet for a Badman, not just for how well the hero and the villain get to know one another, but for the look of the film. The colors are stronger, although a number of shots are fairly grainy (which would be less noticeable on a smaller screen) and the picture is again letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 1.85:1. It is made up largely of close-ups and two-shots, with minimal camera moves or dynamic blocking. The action is still lively, but it is there just to punctuate the drama, like a really good made for TV movie, and it is the depth and nuance the stars bring to their characters that makes it so rewarding. Kenneth Tobey, with genuine bright red hair, costars.

Roan provides another commentary track, again going over the biographies of the cast and crew (repeating some stories and phrases, but deliberately emphasizing other details when it comes to Murphy and some of the other personnel shared by the two films). As he explains, George Sherman began as the film’s director, but had a contretemps early on with Murphy and was replaced by Harry Keller, who has the sole directing credit. Roan thoroughly profiles of both men.

There is no mistaking Walk the Proud Land for a telefilm. The 1956 CinemaScope production, directed by Jesse Hibbs, is letterboxed with an aspect ratio of about 2.35:1 and has a generally lovely and sharp color transfer. In all of the other movies in all of the Audie Murphy Collection boxes, Murphy is an action hero, but while Walk the Proud Land has a few action scenes, it is a social drama. Based upon a true story, the screenplay was drawn from a book written by Woodworth Clum, and Murphy plays Clum’s father, a minister who was put in charge of an Apache reservation in an experimental non-military management. The other two films in the Collection V use Indians as a faceless environmental threat to spice up the action, which is how they were used in many western films and TV shows, but there were also more movies than many cultural experts are willing to admit that addressed the humanity of the indigenous peoples, and Proud Land is one such film. Murphy really has to act in the 88-minute feature, and he gives a wonderful, engaging performance even if he’s not using any sort of ‘method’ to deliver his lines.

Of course, the film is a creation of its era, but the entertainment it has to offer cannot be dismissed, and its heart is clearly in the right place even if it conforms to a long line of movies about people of Western European heritage defending minorities rather than exploring the efforts of minorities to defend themselves. In its most notably dated component, the rarely seen Anne Bancroft, sporting dark makeup, plays an Apache widow, with a child, who becomes the housekeeper of Murphy’s character when he first arrives at the reservation. His fiancée, played by Pat Crowley, does not show up until the film’s second half, and when they marry, she is immediately bent of of shape because Bancroft’s character, while accepting of her, looks upon herself as his ‘second wife.’ The confrontation comes to a climax when Murphy’s character goes off to confront a group of rebellious Indians at the risk of his life and Crowley’s character, having had enough, starts packing to leave. Bancroft’s character enters. “Where do you go?” “I’m going back home.” “But he will turn to me if you go.” “Isn’t that what you want?” “Yes, I do want him. He has love for my people. He is a man. Strong, the way my husband was strong. For such a man there should be