The Gunfighter

If you are, even potentially, a red-blooded he-man you will suffer certain physiological and psychological changes after seeing this week's film at the Brattle. With legs a trifle bowed, your stride will be longer and your weight better balanced for that tiger-like spring into action of which you are, no doubt, totally incapable. Your arms will swing free, hands near your hips for the lightning draw, and the dangerous glint in your steely eyes will warn the world that here is a real mean man.

While alarming to your friends, these rowdyisms are harmless and will pass quickly, leaving you a bit miffed at the return to vapidity and positively wrathful at westerns for the next few months because they do not nearly measure up to The Gunfighter.

This picture, one of the pioneers in the new-school of psychological westerns, is still one of the best. While the heroes of High Noon and Yellow Sky were softened either by sentiment or the vague suspicion of fear, The Gunfihter features men who are just plain, uncomplicated tough. Naturally, their hearts are gold plated and they dearly love their wives and friends, but this doesn't stop them from gunning down fresh young punks, far their inferiors in gun fighting skill, or kicking other young punks who are down and unarmed. The amazing thing is that the writers, actors, and director are so skillful that one doesn't at all mind these breaches of horse opera etiquette. In fact, it would kill the picture's charm if the heroes were a whit less disposed to prove their toughness.

Gregory Peck, as the tough man's tough man, is by way of giving a nearly perfect performance. And his role is no snap. He must alternate between kindliness and deadliness, each with equal fervor, and yet without destroying the plausibility of either. Millard Mitchell, as a rugged marshal, is an old hand at being expert, as is bar-tender Karl Malden. Skip Homier and Richard Jeckel are the shot and kicked punks, and they seem to enjoy their work.

The Gunfighter is one fine picture.