The Big Country (William Wyler, Robert Swink, 1958) One of those films you hear so much about—when one is talking about "epics"—that, once you see it, you wonder what all the fuss is about. Oh, the technical specs are there: stunning cinematography by Franz Planer in Technicolor and Technirama (although early videos before remastered DVD's tended to look a bit washed out and squeezed); a top-notch cast where Charlton Heston is only fourth-billed; and a rousing score by Jerome Moross that busily pumped up the excitement when nothing much was happening (director Wyler evidently hated the score, but it rarely flags—much the same way Elmer Bernstein's score for The Magnificent Seven goosed that film a couple years later). And William Wyler's framing has just enough "edge" to it that when he went off to prep Ben-Hur in Rome (leaving second unit director Robert Swink to finish it) the difference is extremely noticeable. Swink managed to solve some story-issues, but the "snap" of Wyler's visual flair just isn't there, especially in its use of the Technirama frame.
What McKay doesn't know is he's stepped right into a situation not too far afield of Dashiell Hammett's "Red Harvest" where two warring factions are competing for supremacy—the Terrill's and the Hannassey's (led by the blustery Rufus Hannassey played by Burl Ives in an Oscar-winning turn). San Rafael may be "Big Country" (as McKay is continually told by locals), but it doesn't seem to be big enough for two ranches and their respective herds of cattle. The burr under everybody's saddles is the Maragon spread, which has an accommodating body of water for watering the parched cows out on the chaparral. The late owner of the area kept the peace by allowing access to everyone, but things seem to have gotten out of control, now that it's run by Maragon's daughter, school-teacher Julie (Jean Simmons). Seems the strategy for dealing with her is to either make her sell or marry her and she's not having any of it. And McKay is metaphorically a fish out of water. He doesn't fit in out West. He does things differently than they're used to in the passive-aggressive West. When a bunch of Hannassey's men (led by son Chuck Connors) have a little fun drunkenly hog-tying McKay, the Terrill's want to string them up—and even shoot up the Hannassey ranch over it—but McKay dismisses the attack and doesn't want anybody escalating the tensions on his behalf. That's not how they do things out West! And McKay is taken to be a coward, something driven home when Leech offers the use of the horse "Old Thunder"—withholding the information that "Thunder" is a notorious ill-tempered bronco—which McKay refuses, not wanting to be made sport of. While the Terrill's are off on their little pissing match, McKay secretly works with the horse, constantly being bucked off*, until it finally is worn down and acquiesces to being ridden. McKay chooses to keep that knowledge secret—he doesn't give a rip what the others think of him, nor does he check with anyone when he takes a solo sortie out to the Maragon place to inquire about purchase. The Terrill's go into a panic at his disappearance, not realizing that McKay knows how to navigate...and evidently never having seen a compass. McKay's "otherness" is played up in a lot of the film for drama and comedy—McKay's never acquiring the hang of greeting with "Howdy" or "Good Morning" garners an exquisite Peck triple-take—and his stoicism may be the biggest point of the film. Wyler had some dealings with water-rights in his private life, but he saw The Big Country as a Cold War allegory of oneupmanship and territorial transgressions using the philosophy of "Might Makes Right." His protagonist is no antagonist. Peck's McKay doesn't like violence, and though he does carry guns in the film—they're a gift to the Major in a fancy case—he only fires one once...and quite deliberately. In a wild west with so many characters shooting promiscuously (as they say in The Wind and the Lion), McKay's naval Captain makes a third act resolution a little problematic—the film was constantly being rewritten while in production (much to the consternation of the actors). It's what happens when you concentrate on "The Message" rather than "The Story." It's an odd Western where so much of the footage is of someone thinking rather than acting (or "reacting"). It throws the pacing off—Moross' score helps speed through the gaps—and there are a couple of dodgy "within-the-take" edits indicating that someone was aware of the pokiness. The overall effect is to make one think that the West is some kind of "Crazy Town"—maybe there's something in that water!—where everyone is just a little too quick to make assumptions and stubbornly adhere to them no matter what anyone says. Except for the one stranger who sticks to his lack of guns and is comfortable in his own skin, no matter what anybody else thinks. One may initially think that the heads of the Terrill and Hannassey clans are the stubborn ones, but there's enough mule-headedness in everyone to go around. The West is thus a place of contradictions—you have to be strong and stand up for yourself, but in a way that the community approves of, and if you change to accommodate them isn't that going against that principle? Maybe that's what Peck is thinking about throughout the movie (the Westerners certainly don't appear to be thinking!)—stay methodical and tenacious and consistent and maybe you can wear people down in the same way as "Old Thunder." And...if you do that enough over time...maybe, just maybe...you can bring life to the desert and bring civilization to the wild.
* Peck, of course, doesn't do the stunts himself for obvious safety reasons, but in addition the horse's owner insisted on doing the stunts himself. That owner was Slim Pickens.
Our Man in Havana (Carol Reed, 1959) A fascinating serio-comic counter-point to author Graham Greene and Reed's post-war classic The Third Man (made a decade earlier) in which the bold find they can make quite a killing in the cracks created in a transitional government. Reed's camera still swoops (courtesy of d.p. Oswald Morris), making sure that the distended Cinemascope frame is filled to the corners with detail, and the dark streets of Havana at night, (filmed after the revolution and with the quite mercenary permission of Fidel Castro*) could be mistaken for post-war Vienna. The sun shines brighter, though, and so most of the internecine work of spies is done in the relative low-light of bars and brothels.
Greene's book was a cynical look at how Intelligence forces can show a distinct lack of intelligence when confronted with mis-information, but it is Reed's nifty idea to cast it with comedic actors, though not always playing for laughs. With such as Burl Ives, Noel Coward, Ralph Richardson, Ernie Kovacs (he plays a corrupt Cuban police official straight, but it is still funny) and Alec Guinness, it seems more a comedy of errors: British ex-pat Jim Wormold (Guinness) is scraping by a living selling vacuum cleaners in Havana, while his daughter (Jo Morrow) is developing a taste for the expensive horsey set—something that could be provided by Captain Segura (Kovacks), who has an eye for the blonde girl. Wormold has other plans for her, like an expensive Swiss boarding school. But where to get the money?
He is approached one day by Hawthorne (Coward, out of place in his dark suit and bowler hat in the mid-day sun of Havana) of the British secret service—or, as he is known, Agent 29500—to set up a bureau station for the service. For Wormold, it is extra cash, an all-expenses paid membership to the exclusive country club, and a more lavish life-style, all for keeping his daughter close. All the Service wants is results, which Wormold has trouble setting up—he is, after all, only a vaccuum cleaner salesman. Soon, he starts filing bogus reports, recruiting strangers as fellow agents (without their knowledge), building his station in importance to the delight of Hawthorne and his superior 'C' (Ralph Richardson).
However, becoming an important secret agent draws attention. He is soon assigned a secretary (Maureen O'Hara) by his superiors, wanting to build him up, and targeted for assassination by his enemies, wanting to shut him up. Doesn't matter if the information he's sending is all wrong; with so many resources at his command, he's sure to dig up something sooner or later. Scrutinized from both sides, the spy-game stops being so rewarding, and turns downright dangerous.
It's all played with a bit of a wink, with great comic actors under tight rein to let the material be funny without goosing it. Definitely worth seeing for the literate script, Reed's classic direction and the fine performances. John le Carré would later use the basic subject matter for his book (and subsequent John Boorman film) The Tailor of Panama.
* Filming in Cuba with set-visits from Castro and Ernest Hemingway:
The Big Country (William Wyler, Robert Swink, 1958) One of those films you hear so much about—when one is talking about "epics"—that, once you see it, you wonder what all the fuss is about. Oh, the technical specs are there: stunning cinematography by Franz Planer in Technicolor and Technirama (although early videos before remastered DVD's tended to look a bit washed out and squeezed); a top-notch cast where Charlton Heston is only fourth-billed; and a rousing score by Jerome Moross that busily pumped up the excitement when nothing much was happening (director Wyler evidently hated the score, but it rarely flags—much the same way Elmer Bernstein's score for The Magnificent Seven goosed that film a couple years later). And William Wyler's framing has just enough "edge" to it that when he went off to prep Ben-Hur in Rome (leaving second unit director Robert Swink to finish it) the difference is extremely noticeable. Swink managed to solve some story-issues, but the "snap" of Wyler's visual flair just isn't there, especially in its use of the Technirama frame.
