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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
If you like old-school westerns where the dialogue is sparse and the horses do half the work, sure, give it a whirl. But if you’re looking for something with a plot that holds together for more than ten minutes, skip it. It’s for the folks who want that specific, scratchy black-and-white comfort.
The whole thing feels like it was put together with scraps. You’ve got Billy O'Brien looking serious, and honestly, he looks like he’s trying to remember if he left the stove on back home.
There’s a dog named Muro in this, and let’s be real, he’s probably the best actor in the bunch. He doesn’t overthink his lines. He just walks where he’s told and looks confused by the camera, which is more than I can say for some of the humans.
Sometimes the movie just stops. Like, the characters stand there in the desert for an eternity while a tumbleweed rolls by. It’s awkward. You start wondering if the film reel got stuck or if the director just went to lunch.
I couldn’t help but compare it to The Indians Are Coming, which at least had the decency to move a little faster. This one? It takes its sweet time, and not in an artistic way.
The scenery is just endless sand and scrub brush. It’s weirdly hypnotic, in a way. You find yourself staring at a rock in the background, thinking, 'That’s a nice rock.' That’s when you know the story has lost you.
I’ve seen better pacing in Nanook of the North, and that’s a documentary about people trying to stay warm. Maybe I’m being harsh, but the whole thing feels like a Saturday morning chore.
Still, there's a certain charm to how unpolished it is. Nobody was trying to win an Oscar. They were just trying to fill a slot in the theater schedule. That's kind of honest, I guess.
Don’t go in expecting greatness. Just expect a lot of squinting into the sun. 🤠