Gangster Cornell Wilde and his small-minded sidekick Adam Schiff -- I mean Steven Hill -- show up unexpectedly with a bag of loot at the remote farm house of his big brother, the failed writer Dan Duryea, and his blond hausfrau Jean Wallace. Their child, David Stollery, is a witness to the conflicts, arguments, violence, deaths, and general mishigas that takes place during the visit. Dennis Weaver has a small part as the good neighbor.
The screenplay was by Horton Foote, the direction by Wilde, and the cast and crew professionally competent, with some exceptions. The result is almost a stage play in which fierce disagreements take place.
Wilde does adequately by the part of the tough guy who genuinely doesn't want to intrude but has no place else to go because the police are all over the place searching for him and his buddy. He adds an almost indiscernible stutter to his voice in moments of stress. Nothing is made of it. It's just a nice touch that makes him human. He has a couple of shirtless scenes during which his wounds are treated by Wallace and I hated him for that. How can he be so muscular and sound at the age of forty-three? The swine.
Jean Wallace is not much of an actress but she looks as if she would be perfectly at home milking cows on a Polish włość. I hope you appreciate that Polish word. It means "small farm." Took me half an hour to find the proper alphabet. Dan Duryea -- well, we missed his slick-backed hair and straw boater and his whining voice and his slapping dames around. Here, he's a fagged out lunger wrapped up in sweaters and scarves and looking as if the North Korean Army had just marched over him. Steven Hill is unrecognizable except as the stereotype he is. And as for the kid, kids will be kids. Everybody loves them, except Hill.
Overall it's pretty depressing. It's claustrophobic. It resembles a staged play in which the set dresser was drunk all the time. And the story, for all its shouting, is a little weak in humanity. (See "Hud" for a successful example of how to make a movie about a couple of people on a ranch.) Poor Dan Duryea freezes in the snow. It's not quite certain exactly where his body is found, through either careless direction or editing. But if I were despondent and depressed, a total failure -- and I AM -- I think I'd hang myself if I had to live in a seedy dump like that.
The screenplay was by Horton Foote, the direction by Wilde, and the cast and crew professionally competent, with some exceptions. The result is almost a stage play in which fierce disagreements take place.
Wilde does adequately by the part of the tough guy who genuinely doesn't want to intrude but has no place else to go because the police are all over the place searching for him and his buddy. He adds an almost indiscernible stutter to his voice in moments of stress. Nothing is made of it. It's just a nice touch that makes him human. He has a couple of shirtless scenes during which his wounds are treated by Wallace and I hated him for that. How can he be so muscular and sound at the age of forty-three? The swine.
Jean Wallace is not much of an actress but she looks as if she would be perfectly at home milking cows on a Polish włość. I hope you appreciate that Polish word. It means "small farm." Took me half an hour to find the proper alphabet. Dan Duryea -- well, we missed his slick-backed hair and straw boater and his whining voice and his slapping dames around. Here, he's a fagged out lunger wrapped up in sweaters and scarves and looking as if the North Korean Army had just marched over him. Steven Hill is unrecognizable except as the stereotype he is. And as for the kid, kids will be kids. Everybody loves them, except Hill.
Overall it's pretty depressing. It's claustrophobic. It resembles a staged play in which the set dresser was drunk all the time. And the story, for all its shouting, is a little weak in humanity. (See "Hud" for a successful example of how to make a movie about a couple of people on a ranch.) Poor Dan Duryea freezes in the snow. It's not quite certain exactly where his body is found, through either careless direction or editing. But if I were despondent and depressed, a total failure -- and I AM -- I think I'd hang myself if I had to live in a seedy dump like that.