I kind of like Randolph Scott as a cowboy. He relied on two expressions. One was a slight frown signifying determination and an awareness of danger. The other was a good-natured smile bespeaking satisfaction and self confidence. (Sam Pekinpah added a note to impending treachery to that smile in "Ride The High Country.") Scott's minimalist acting was put to use in dozens of Westerns around this time, and sometimes put to very good use indeed.
So it's a disappointment to find that "Colt .45" is such a stinker. It's not Randy's fault. He does his usual schtick. The responsibility for the failure lies with the writer and the director.
The director, Marin, seems to have encouraged all his principles to overact. Of course he could get nowhere with Randolph Scott, who had the range of a Soviet era steel statue, all muscle, upraised arm with a fist on the end. But Ruth Roman looks as if she's taking acting lessons. And Zachary Scott, as the outlaw who steals two of Scott's Colt six shooters and becomes feared throughout the cinematic West, goes well beyond a community college drama class into some overacting stratosphere. Many movies are as good as their villains. And Zachary Scott's villainy would sink this effort, even if nothing else did. He never utters a kind word -- not from the very beginning. He doesn't smile. He sneers and scowls. His eyes bulge with malevolence. He hisses between snarls. The director needed to rein him in, along with just about everyone else, extras included. If only Z. Scott had had a dog or a stamp collection -- or something!
The writer must share some of the blame. The film opens with a prologue that tells us that guns don't kill people. People kill people. Then it goes on to demonstrate the opposite. On top of that, a good deal is made of the Colt .45s that Randolph Scott is selling at the opening in 1852. He explains that they're a revolutionary invention in that they can fire six bullets in sequence without reloading. He shows a client how it works. The revolver uses the cap and ball method, meaning that instead of a single cartridge, the user has to combine a paper cartridge and a lead ball, both of which must be tamped down, and then add a percussion cap. He must go through this procedure six times, once for every chamber.
I'm not a gun enthusiast, so I hope I'll be excused if I feel this throws a knot into the plot. If, as the movie asserts, only the two Scotts have these revolutionary new six shooters, it means that everyone else must have lesser ordinance like muzzle loaders. Okay, except that the few other pistols we see are apparently Civil War Remingtons, which were also six shooters loaded by the same method. Did Samuel Colt have a lobbyist at work? Of course not.
Well, so the movie sucks. It must be one of Randy Scott's worst Westerns. Yet, let me end on a positive note. Scott looks just fine, even if he doesn't exactly evoke 1852. He's handsome. He's weathered and tan. He's fit. Towards the end, he appears in black trousers, black belt, black shirt, and black cowboy hat, all properly accessorized by a canary yellow neckerchief. He strides. He exudes authority. He's charismatic. He collects his paychecks.
So it's a disappointment to find that "Colt .45" is such a stinker. It's not Randy's fault. He does his usual schtick. The responsibility for the failure lies with the writer and the director.
The director, Marin, seems to have encouraged all his principles to overact. Of course he could get nowhere with Randolph Scott, who had the range of a Soviet era steel statue, all muscle, upraised arm with a fist on the end. But Ruth Roman looks as if she's taking acting lessons. And Zachary Scott, as the outlaw who steals two of Scott's Colt six shooters and becomes feared throughout the cinematic West, goes well beyond a community college drama class into some overacting stratosphere. Many movies are as good as their villains. And Zachary Scott's villainy would sink this effort, even if nothing else did. He never utters a kind word -- not from the very beginning. He doesn't smile. He sneers and scowls. His eyes bulge with malevolence. He hisses between snarls. The director needed to rein him in, along with just about everyone else, extras included. If only Z. Scott had had a dog or a stamp collection -- or something!
The writer must share some of the blame. The film opens with a prologue that tells us that guns don't kill people. People kill people. Then it goes on to demonstrate the opposite. On top of that, a good deal is made of the Colt .45s that Randolph Scott is selling at the opening in 1852. He explains that they're a revolutionary invention in that they can fire six bullets in sequence without reloading. He shows a client how it works. The revolver uses the cap and ball method, meaning that instead of a single cartridge, the user has to combine a paper cartridge and a lead ball, both of which must be tamped down, and then add a percussion cap. He must go through this procedure six times, once for every chamber.
I'm not a gun enthusiast, so I hope I'll be excused if I feel this throws a knot into the plot. If, as the movie asserts, only the two Scotts have these revolutionary new six shooters, it means that everyone else must have lesser ordinance like muzzle loaders. Okay, except that the few other pistols we see are apparently Civil War Remingtons, which were also six shooters loaded by the same method. Did Samuel Colt have a lobbyist at work? Of course not.
Well, so the movie sucks. It must be one of Randy Scott's worst Westerns. Yet, let me end on a positive note. Scott looks just fine, even if he doesn't exactly evoke 1852. He's handsome. He's weathered and tan. He's fit. Towards the end, he appears in black trousers, black belt, black shirt, and black cowboy hat, all properly accessorized by a canary yellow neckerchief. He strides. He exudes authority. He's charismatic. He collects his paychecks.