Rob Roy

Rob Roy is a celluloid fever-dream hurled straight from a 1922 Highland mist: the tale of a chieftain—Wallace Bosco’s granite-jawed Rob—whose honor is flayed alive by Alec Hunter’s Duke, a silk-clad predator nursing envy like absinthe in his veins. Outlawed, stripped of title and cattle, Rob stalks the glens with dirk and pride intact, while the Duke’s perfumed gaze lingers on Eva Llewellyn’s flame-haired heroine, a woman whose love for Rob becomes the match that scorches feudal etiquette. Cinematographer Simeon Stuart’s camera drinks in peat-bog bruise-light, then vaults to crags where eagles wheel, rendering every heathered ridge a stage for vendetta. Ramsey’s intertitles spark Gaelic cadence; the score—footsteps on frost—beats time as Rob’s thirst for restitution swells into a sword-edge crescendo. At seventy breathless minutes, the film distills vendetta into raw spirit, leaving the audience tasting iron in their mouths.