The History of John Ford: My Darling Clementine

When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford." 

Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots). 

In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford.

 

My Darling Clementine (John Ford, Lloyd Bacon, 1946) Stuart Lake's 1931 biography of Wyatt Earp, "Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal," had already inspired two previous Earp movies—one in 1934 and one in 1939, both titled Frontier Marshal—and in 1946, he published another book "My Darling Clementine." John Ford took an interest in the latter and bought the film rights, using it to make the last film he owed on his contract with 20th Century Fox.

Ford had revolutionized the Western genre with his 1939 film of Stagecoach and My Darling Clementine was his return to making horse operas since that film. Ford also wanted to make the film as he had conversed with the real Wyatt Earp during his silent-movie days, and he wanted to make an accurate depiction of the frontier town of Tombstone and of the climactic Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, a 30 second skirmish in the city's streets that author Lake had mythologized in "Frontier Marshal".

There are those who say this is Ford's best Western, though, as great as it is, I find it slightly problematic. Great, but there are little details that paw at the dirt. For the first point, it is wildly inaccurate about events during Earp's tenure in the law while he was in Tombstone. He was never sheriff as the film depicts—that was his brother Virgil (played in the film by Tim Holt)—the Earps weren't cowboys but gamblers and pimps...and opportunists. Old Man Clanton (played by Walter Brennan at his most repellent) who, in the film, is the instigator of the bad blood between the Earps and the Clanton and whose killing of Virgil leads to the famous "gunfight"—which also *cough* took place in 1881, not 1882—died before any of this took place. Doc Holliday was a dentist, not a surgeon, and there was never any "Clementine." One isn't even sure of the details of that gunfight, even though Ford says he staged it as Earp described it to him when the two found themselves on the same silent film-shoot. But, who lived and who died in real life is nothing like presented in the film.

Earp was well-known for "polishing his badge" in interviews—and Blake Edwards, in his 1988 film Sunset has Earp say "that's just how it happened...except for a lie or two." Certainly, Lake's biographies are rife with inaccuracies, due to writerly creativity, Earp's sketchy relationship to Truth and the efforts of Earp's widow, Josephine, to white-wash history in her husband's favor.

But, then we're also talking about John Ford, who, in two years, would make Fort Apache where John Wayne's Cavalry Captain Kirby York would lie to the press about the actions of his fallen superior Lt. Col. Owen Thursday (Fonda again) "for the sake of the Corps" and who would articulate the sentiment in 1962's The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance when a member of the press says "This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." Ford mythologized the West in his movies, even if, in later films, he would puncture those myths for a more nuanced perspective on "Manifest Destiny."

There's a story of Ford being confronted by a historian of the Old West about all those fictions in Clementine and Ford replied "Well...did you like the picture?" to which the guy said he did very much. To which Ford hammered back "What more do you want?"

 

Good argument, that. Really.

But, the other issue I have is that director's credit. What we have now as My Darling Clementine isn't exactly the film Ford made. 20th Century studio head Darryl Zanuck thought it was okay, but wanted to make changes to it—and employed studio employee Lloyd Bacon to shoot other scenes, while Zanuck trimmed some 17 minutes out of the film. Those non-Ford scenes include Henry Fonda's Wyatt Earp talking over the grave-site of his brother James (Don Garner), killed in an ambush by the Clantons. The other big change? The ending, where Earp bids farewell to Clementine. In Ford's version they shake hands. But, preview audiences felt...unfulfilled. So, Zanuck had Bacon shoot a new close-up of a farewell kiss. Afterwards, when Zanuck offered Ford another contract to do more movies at Fox, the director turned it down to make films, without Zanuck's interference, through his own studio, Argosy Pictures. 

So, what do we have in My Darling Clementine, that odd mixture of fiction and legend? History as we'd like it to be. Simplistic delineations between good and evil out on the edge of civilization. And where young Wyatt Earp has revenge on his mind—that part's certainly historically accurate—for the harm done to his family, it's a case of Good versus Bad (certainly less complicated than the testimonies given at the Earp's real-life trial after the incident) with Good triumphing and even getting the girl. Maybe it was Zanuck's treatment of it talking, but Ford dismissed it as "essentially a film for children."

Ford was toiling in the fields of Myth, not History. He was telling a far bigger story than the one leading to the rumble at the O.K. Corral; Ford was examining the story of the dawning of a frontier civilization. When the town of Tombstone is first introduced by old man Clanton he describes it as "wide-open". That's an understatement; it's not even a town, just a single row of "growing concerns"—a hotel, a boarding house, a saloon, a brothel, a store, "that" corral...and a barbershop. There isn't even a defining thing as a street—the doors of buildings face open landscape, interrupted by transitory covered wagons. It's rough and in its genesis.

It's certainly no place to raise a family, the only examples of which are the Earps and the Clantons, polar opposites—one defining anarchy and the other abiding by the rules, such as they are. The Earps come to Tombstone for a respite from the trail, leaving young brother James to look after their herd, only having that moment of relief lead to the young man's death, presumably ambushed by the Clantons. The Earps settle in town—after Wyatt resolutely handles a disturbance—ultimately to settle scores.

Their positions as law-men will be a challenge to the Clantons, but also to Tombstone's most prominent citizen, "Doc" Holliday (Victor Mature), once a surgeon, now a drinker, gambler, and gun-fighter. He has come to—appropriately—Tombstone to die, running from his past life to the drier desert, hoping it will help his tuberculosis. He has come to town a dead man walking, and he's lost hope...in his health, himself, and in everything. His existential crisis is first irritated by the presence of the Earps—he can't exactly throw his callousness around anymore—but it comes to a respectful kindredship. He begins—against a thousand reasons not to—to hope.

Part of this transformation is due to his friendship with Wyatt, who is centered, contained, confident, and unflappable. Henry Fonda's interpretation of Wyatt is not given to overzealousness or going off half-cocked. He's steady...even in a crisis...in stark contrast to the Clantons who know no bounds or ethics. The man who no longer believes in anything, starts to find purpose. And the rough-hewn Earp begins to gradually become more dapper, in no small part due to the presence in town of Holliday's former flame and assistant, Clementine Carter (Cathy Downs), who has come there to try to bring Holliday back to his old life.

The balance of Tombstone shifts from merely trying to persevere against adversity to appearing to thrive, to build, and—once the Clantons are taken care of—why, they even presume to hire a schoolteacher. How's that for putting down roots and hoping for the future? 

You boil down those "legends of Wyatt Earp" (forget all those troublesome details)—and you get the story of the building of community, which is far less exciting than the turf-battles and gun-fights of less-considered examples of the Western, but the more protracted, difficult story of mending fences.

That's the story of My Darling Clementine. Not "the taming of the West" but the taming of our worst instincts.

The History of John Ford: Stagecoach (1939)

When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford." 

Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots). 

 In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford.


Stagecoach (John Ford, 1939) This classic western was hailed as the first "adult western" when it premiered and changed many folks' minds about the viability of the dusty genre to tell stories beyond those of bank-robbers and Indians and greedy rustlers and romancing school-ma'rms. Oh, and singing cowboys. It went beyond childhood fantasies and explored something beyond the white hat/black hat simplicity of early "oaters" to look at things like hypocrisy and duplicity.

Ford tells the story (based on a script by Dudley Nichols from a story, "Stage to Lordsburgh" by Ernest Haycox ) of a motley group of passengers thrust together on an event-filled stagecoach ride to Lordsburgh. That's the bones of it. But, it's not so much the location work, the horses, or the gun-play as it is the interaction between a coach of people on the outskirts of civilization—or what passes for "civilization" out there on the prairie. 

The stagecoach is being driven by Buck (Andy Devine) with Marshall Curley Wilcox (George Bancroft) riding shotgun; the Marshall is taking that position because there's news that "The Ringo Kid" has broken out of prison, vowing revenge on the Plummer brothers for the murder of his father and brother. The Plummers are in Lordsburgh, so chances are "Ringo" is headed there, as well, giving the Marshall a chance to catch him before any one else is killed.

But, there's another reason: Geronimo is on the warpath, and a stagecoach is just the sort of thing he and his Apache band will be looking for. Not that the passengers loading in the town of Tonto in the Arizona Territory are all that valuable: there's Lucy Mallory (Louise Platt), a young Army wife with a secret on the last leg of a journey to re-unite with her husband; the gambler Hatfield (John Carradine), who takes pity on the woman for her long journey and chooses to accompany her; there's Sam Peacock (Donald Meek), a liquor salesman. The city's "Law and Order League" are kicking out two of the passengers: Doc Boone (Thomas Mitchell), the town doctor and town drunk, and "a lady of pleasure," Dallas (Claire Trevor). A last minute addition is the town banker, Henry Gatewood (Berton Churchill), who blusters and bullies his way onto the stage, making for crowded conditions.

They don't make much head-way until they run into another orphan—"Ringo" (John Wayne), yep, just as the Marshall thought, on his way to Lordsburgh with death on his mind, but a horse that's gone lame, and so he hails down the stage with a rifle-cock, dust-blown and sweating in one of the grandest introductions that Ford ever allowed one of his actors.* "Ringo" does intend to confront the Plummers, but he's glad to see the Marshall and Buck, anyway, as they're old friends. And, heck, sure, he did a jail-break, but there's no reason to get ornery about it, as the Marshall's just doing his job and he sure could use that coach-ride.

It might've been healthier to catch the next one. It's crowded on that stagecoach and Ringo is relegated to the floor, caught in the middle between bickering, loathing, and often drunken passengers. Ringo stays friendly and guileless. So much so that he treats Dallas with the same respect that he does Mrs. Mallory—at the first stop at Dry Fork, when everyone else sits for a lunch-break, he offers her a chair (next to him, in fact), the haughtier passengers move away from their company. At Dry Fork, their cavalry escort moves on to Apache Wells—there's been an incident and Mallory's husband has gone off with them—but, the coach passengers vote to move on despite the lack of troops watching over them.

They make it to Apache Wells, but their stay there will be unexpectedly long: first, Mrs. Mallory is informed that her husband has been injured in a skirmish with Apaches nearby, which leads to a medical emergency that forces them to stay the night, forces Doc Boone to sober up, and allows some folks' opinion of Dallas to change. 

But not Ringo. Her actions only cements his opinion of her, and before the next day dawns, he proposes to her, which just puts her in a state of confusion. She thinks he's naive and doesn't know about her, but he doesn't care. Then, there's the little matter of his heading for Lordburgh—he's not going to let go of his blood-feud, and for Dallas, that's a prospect that can only lead to a very short marriage and widow's weeds.

Dallas and Ringo concoct a desperate plan for his escape—she grabs a rifle, he grabs a horse and he's off before Wilcox can notice he's gone. But, once he does, it doesn't take him long to find him. He's stopped, looking off at the horizon. The Apaches are sending war-signals, and no matter what delicate condition the passengers are in, they're heading for Lordsburgh, pronto.

There begins a sequence for which Ford became famous—a desperate chase across the desert with no cover in sight, with everyone riding at top-gallop, break-neck. This one is augmented and devised by the work of legendary stuntman/arranger Yakima Canutt (who was recommended for the job by Wayne). To this day, it's an amazing show of guts and bravery. The most amazing of which are two shots that are unbroken—where Canutt plays an Apache warrior who leaps from his horse to the lead-horse of the stagecoach, is then "shot" by Ringo and falls back between the horses and between the wheels of the wagon. The other he doubles for Ringo, as he leaps from horse-back to horse-back trying to retrieve the reigns of the lead horses dropped by Buck when he's shot during the fire-fight.

Canutt's work was so respected by Ford that the stunt-man was put on the payroll of every subsequent Ford film (unless he was working on another picture), whether his services were needed or not.

Stagecoach was made in that Golden Year of 1939, probably the apex of Hollywood output as far as high-end quality. It has aged very well, balancing out things that seem merely quaint today (but were radical in its era) with things that still boggles the mind and eye. One of those things is the cinematography of Bert Glennon, a workmanlike photographer who Ford would rely during his RKO days before setting up stables at 20th Century Fox. Ford would call on him again for his glorious Wagonmaster.

It's been remade (twice, both wildly inferior to the original), made John Wayne a star, won Thomas Mitchell his Oscar, and changed the Western genre from kiddie fare to acceptable adult material. It also earned Ford another of his innumerable "Best Director" nominations at the Academy Awards.

And Orson Welles watched it forty times before making Citizen Kane.

John Wayne walking in 1939, the way he'd walk the rest of his Western career.

* It's a "truck-in" shot, a difficult maneuver as you have to maintain focus for the entire distance. They didn't, as one can see in Stagecoach, even though it has a great effect. But, they would when Ford did the same trick on Wayne in The Searchers. Why he did it for Wayne here is one of those John Ford mysteries. Wayne had worked in the background of a lot of Ford films, and the director was definitely grooming him to become an actor—even a star. But, director Raoul Walsh got him first, changing Marion Morrison's name to "John Wayne" and starring him in his film The Big Trail, a massive wide-screen (65 mm and stereo sound) wagon-train epic, which is a great movie, but it failed to make back its substantial costs at the box-office. Wayne was left to languish, making B and C-grade Westerns at Monogram and Mascot Studios, until Ford wore off his "snit" about Wayne's seeming "betrayal" and cast him in Stagecoach. This elaborate intro shot may have been Ford's penance.

The History of John Ford: Wagon Master

When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford."

Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots).

In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford. 


Wagon Master (John Ford, 1950) The western expansion of the American frontier is a standard theme of...the Western. John Ford had featured prospective settlers (and settling prospectors) in many of his films, but made the phenomenon the center of his film Wagonmaster, a modest black and white western, made in between When Willie Comes Marching Home and Rio Grande. Wagonmaster could well be the pilot episode of the television series "Wagon Train" (1957-1965)—which also starred Ward Bond in the first four seasons. There are no A-list stars—just the "Ford Stock Company" stepping front and center in the film, rather than filling the corners and back-stories.

Ford begins the movie bluntly with an almost silent sequence (Ford learned his craft making silent pictures)—the Clegg's (Charles Kemper, James Arness, Hank Worden, Fred Libby, and Mickey Simpson) are robbing the Crystal City Bank, resulting in Pa Clegg being shot in the wing, and, incensed by the inconvenience and the impertinence, shooting the chief clerk in the back without regard to the escalation. The bank's sole source of internal light, a hanging hurricane lamp, swings with the force and the temerity of it. There have been no titles, no studio accreditation, no introduction. The movie begins with a terrible act with no word of warning.

It is only then that the titles appear proudly, diametrically, over footage of a dogged wagon train (complete with dog) accompanied by the "Song of the Wagonmaster" by The Sons of the Pioneers emphasizing the highs and lows of the rolling life. There is a lot of music in Wagonmaster, over such montages, that one might be distracted from some of the more beautifully comp0sed shots, or the rigors it took to achieve them, but to say it's a "musical" (as some appreciative writers have stated) may be stating it too strongly, considering the amount of song and group-musicianship in others of his works.

As the Clegg's silently take to the hills, watching their backs, two horse-traders ("That's my business!"), Travis (Ben Johnson) and Sandy (Harry Carey, Jr.) ride  out of Navajo Country with their latest acquisitions, trying to calculate their fortunes at $30 a head. They pull into Crystal City, the town still recovering from the recent murderous bank robbery and the Sheriff makes a show of checking the ponies while actually appraising the men attached to them—they're neither the type nor the number.

Convincing the Sheriff enough of their innocence to sell him a pony—and play a prank that sets the horse, with the Sheriff temporarily attached, careening into the streets—the two plan to rest up in town to play a few rounds of "High-Low-Jick, Jack, Ginny and the Bean Gun," which, besides the passing of funds, will give Travis his own assessment of the town and his future fortunes, given a conversation he'd had previously that day.

"I'm in"

The film proper doesn't get underway until Travis and Sandy meet the blustery ("I repent my words of wrath") Elder Wiggs (Ward Bond) and a small contingent of his party of Mormons who are being run out of Crystal City by the "fine" folk there who do not like their ways ("that's why I keep my hat on—so the horns won't show"), Their aim is to wagon-train to a "valley reserved for us by the Lord," by the San Juan Rover, hoping to get there before the winter rains come, to set up an outpost for their brethren to follow to. They want to buy the ponies and are in need of "wagon-masters" to negotiate the trail. During an extended negotiation that involves whittling interspersed with some volatile umbrage by the elder over price and the pony-men's lack of availability (even though they don't drink, don't chaw, don't cuss—much—and display no vices, other than a propensity towards gambling), the elder walks away merely with horseflesh and the responsibility for the journey.

Well, if there ever was a gamble...; when the Mormon party is escorted to the city limits, Travis and Sandy are there to meet them as they inform Wiggs that his group is not facing hundreds of miles of unknown alone. Wiggs is grateful for the help, but not all of the party are thrilled, chafing from taking orders from ruffians not part of the flock—they have women and children, after all. Wiggs has to be peace-maker, which is an unusual role for him, and one he's not accustomed to.

It's a big country out West—it was filmed in Moab, Utah (out-of-reach in order to discourage visits by producers) and parts of Monument Valley (to take advantage of extras from the Navajo nation, some familiar faces from other Ford productions can be seen among the Natives), but being close to the outskirts of civilization—that being Crystal City—the wagon train comes across others of their outcasts, which the sheriff listed as "Mormons, Cleggses, showfolk, horsetraders." The Mormons are far enough along that water is in short supply when they come across #3 in the list: Dr. A. Locksley Hall (Alan Mowbray), travelling showman and rumored dentist, selling a healing elixir, accompanied by two women no one would confuse with nurses Fleuretty Phyffe (Ruth Clifford) and Denver (Joanne Dru, who had just featured in Ford's She Wore a Yellow Ribbon). When they're found, they have run out of water, and are staying alive—but not on their feet—with the doctor's snake-oil.

Liquor and loose women are usually not a good mix with Mormons, but as the party is in a terrible spot, they're allowed to be party to the train, at least until they reach water. Being show-folk, they don't quite understand the necessity of rationing water with no shaving and no showers.

But outcasts attract, and though the Mormons keep the "show-folk" at arm's length, Elder Wiggs has enough of a past with (what he calls) "hootchy-kootchy shows", he can see Miss Fleuretty as "a fine figure of a woman" (she's loyal to the doctor, however), and Travis and Denver have one of those passive-aggressive flirtations that pop up in Ford films with strong women and cowed boys. Although the journey involves struggle, generally everyone is doing the right thing, perhaps due to their empathy with their lot as outsiders or undesirables, perhaps to their religious beliefs, regardless of their faith—extending to the Native Nahajo's who welcome them into their camp, as Mormons have a reputation for being less dishonest than other whites.

And far less than the "Cleggses." It is inevitable in the rules of drama that in all the wilderness that they should eventually meet up with antagonists. It's where the good feelings generated within and by the wagon train are challenged and where their dreams are threatened. It's also crucial in the Ford Universe; sure, everybody is an outcast from "polite society," but that doesn't make everyone a saint by default. That list of "Mormons, 'Cleggses', show-folk and horse-traders" has one rough-hewn peg in it and the "Cleggses" have no best intentions other than fulfilling their basic needs with no aspirations beyond that. Ford's heroes, no matter their place in society (or outside of it) have hopes, dreams...plans...purpose.

But, his villains: they may have dreams, but also have no qualms ruthlessly—or cluelessly—quashing the dreams of others. In Wagonmaster, community is all, and once the stakes rise high enough to affect the future, that's when ultimate action must be taken against oppression, even on a wagon train that now, thanks to being overrun by the "Cleggses", has no guns.

Wagonmaster has no stars to bank on, (but, then, neither did Stagecoach)—the one Oscar winning actor of the bunch, Jane Darwell, has very few lines (maybe five) in the entire thing. Stars have a tendency to dominate story, and in the case of Wagonmaster, would distract from it. Better that the story remain distributed among the many, and that the focus be on the journey and the collective that it forms. As it's the story for the quest for settlement and the forging of a community with the best of intentions and with an eye toward the future.

It was one of director Ford's favorite films, despite it lack of success at the box-office. That maybe entirely due to the vision that he held for it and his view of how well the task was accomplished—what we now call the "signal to noise" ratio.* 

Better than The Searchers, though? To my mind, no. But, then, The Searchers is a study in human nature and its worst qualities in regards to race prejudices, whereas Wagonmaster points to the best instincts, despite the impact of such things. Wagonmaster has hope and looks ahead, not back.

It's a beautiful film to watch, and one to cherish.

* A modern example is George Lucas' Star Wars: Oh, sure, everybody loved it, but it was a film that he was disappointed in, despite its success—that he felt that need to tinker with it, erasing the flaws he constantly saw in it, to make it closer to what he originally had in mind.

The History of John Ford: The Iron Horse (1924)

When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford." 

Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots). 

 In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford.

The Iron Horse (John Ford, 1924) "Accurate and faithful in every particular of fact and atmosphere is this pictorial history of the building of the first transcontinental railroad" says the opening title card of The Iron Horse, John Ford's epic 2 1/2 hour silent epic about the building of the first transcontinental railroad. Well, that might be a stretch, but it certainly "becomes" truth, so "cut...print" this legend that manages to cram a large swath of American history into its story of cowboys, Indians, cattle-drives, the Pony Express, murder, ethnic conflicts, ethnics, situational ethics, love lost and found, men (lost and found), the transitory nature of railroad towns, a nice little bar-room brawl, and the consideration of what passed as frontier justice, as well as appearances by Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok and Abraham Lincoln. That's a lot of track to put down and Ford and his writers Charles Kenyon and John Russell manage to link it all with the stories of a disparate group of people all linked together to try to unite the country after its fractious Civil War.

They just have to keep from killing each other first.

It starts with a man and a dream. David Brandom (James Gordon) is commiserating with two of his friends in Springfield, Illinois, contractor Thomas Marsh (Will Walling) and Abraham Lincoln (Charles Edward Bull) as he prepares a journey West with his son to survey a better path across the U.S. for a future rail transportation system than the Indian trail that is the expected route.

Three months later, Brandom finds a pass that will cut the trip a good two hundred miles, but before he can alert anyone to the fact, he is attacked and killed by a raiding party of Cherokees, and killed by a white renegade who only has two fingers on his right hand. Davey Jr., hiding from the attack is left alive and is found by trappers.

Cut to June, 1862 and now-President Abraham Lincoln signs a bill to build two railways, the Union Pacific and Central Pacific, simultaneously to meet mid-way and construction, forming a continuous route from East to West, despite protests from the military not to divert funds from the Civil War. To watch the signing is contractor Marsh as well as his daughter Miriam (Madge Bellamy)—who had been sweet on young Davey in their youth, but is now engaged to her father's engineer, Jesson (Cyril Chadwick).

The project gets underway, but soon runs into difficulty, both internally and externally. Cheyenne warrior attacks plague the construction (led by frequent Ford actor Chief John Big Tree), disrupting payrolls and killing workers, requiring law enforcement to be constantly on-site. Those attacks could be at the instigation of a land-owner, Deroux (Fred Kohler), who wants the train to be built on his holdings—and he's aided by the fact that Jesson is taking bribes to maintain Deroux's interests over Marsh's'. It puts the project in a financial bind, forcing Marsh to start looking for a shorter, more efficient route that over Jesson and Deroux's objections. 

In the nick of time reappears young Davey (George O'Brien) who encounters the train while delivering mail via the Pony Express. Davey re-unites with Marsh, who tells him of the troubles he's having, and Davey tells him of the pass he and his father discovered on their doomed surveying expedition all those many years ago. Marsh tasks Davey to re-trace the steps of the trip as the discovery may save the project from ruin.

But, Davey can't go alone. Jesson insists on going to verify the viability of the route. This is bad news for Davey, who's suspicious of the engineer, not only because he distrusts him on first sight, but also as he's engaged to Miriam, his boyhood love. He has good reason to distrust Jesson, as the crooked engineer has been tasked by Deroux to kill Davey and scuttle any plans to scuttle the route that would not benefit him.

Sure enough, once they find the fabled pass, while Davey starts to descend the side of the bluff to check conditions of the passage, Jesson cuts his rope, sending the young man tumbling into the valley. Without so much as a backward glance, Jesson goes back to Marsh to report the route is unsafe, Davey having been killed in a typical rock-fall.

Of course, he hasn't. That wouldn't be right. And how Davey gets back to the train is just one of the many sub-plots and incidences in Ford's massive epic—it would have been called a 15-reeler in its day (10 minutes a reel). And those reels are jammed with happenstance. Despite the plight of Davey, there's so much going on because...well, building a locomotive track across virginal country is a complicated thing...because of the remoteness and the man-hours needed and the supplies needed to feed and house those producers of man-hours, and that's fine if everybody agrees it's a good idea. If they don't, that's drama. And The Iron Horse carries a lot of drama.

So, yeah, there's all that stuff in the film I listed in the first paragraph of the post-proper. Davey's is just one story, but his story is contained in the entire movie, even pre-dating the building of the railroad. There's a call-back to the earlier murder of Davey's father, the perpetrator being one of the dramatis personæ in the latter-day proceedings. To anyone who's experienced the bubble-universe of movies, it won't be any surprise who the scoundrel is (actions beget character), despite that individual's ability to cross cultures.

As insular as the story is, it does take advantage of the scope inherent in such a massive project as the transcontinental railroad, an attempt by settlers to unite both shores of the continent and create a line between such far-flung expanses and peoples. Ford's histories of the U.S. are all about world-building, the particulars of the individuals finding common ground, despite their differences, and making a better world for themselves through the efforts of the dedicated and despite the desires of the self-interested. Community is all in Ford's films, even in such early efforts as this silent epic that stretched the boundaries of subject matter, location filming, and the art of film-making.

It's an epic tale of an epic task, a milestone in building a future and cementing the "United" in the "United" States.

Ford's The Iron Horse was voted into The National Film Registry in 2011. How could it not? So far, 11 of Ford's films have been voted in, more than any other director (aside Howard Hawks' 11). I'm sure there will be more to come in the future.

The Iron Horse will enter the U.S. public domain in 2020. It can be seen on YouTube and Daily Motion—for free—now.