Tag: Chill Wills

The Yearling (1946)

Sentimental family drama has a slightly harder edge than you might expect

Director: Clarence Brown

Cast: Gregory Peck (Ezra ‘Penny’ Baxter), Jane Wyman (Ora Baxter), Claude Jarman Jnr (Jody), Chill Wills (Buck Forrester), Clem Bevan (Pa Forrester), Margaret Wycherly (Ma Forrester), Henry Travers (Mr Boyles), Forrest Tucker (Lem Forrester)

Based on a beloved best-seller, The Yearling is set in the Florida farmlands of 1878 where the Baxter family is struggling to make ends meet in tough conditions. Pa Ezra (Gregory Peck) and Ma Ora Baxter (Jane Wyman) have already buried at least two children, which has made Ma prevent herself from getting too close to their 12-year-old son Jody (Claude Jarmon Jnr). Jody has the love of his decent Pa, but his heart needs filling. He finds some of that missing love when he adopts Flag, an orphaned fawn. But a yearling isn’t the best house guest for a farm…

There is something very reassuring on the surface about The Yearling, a seemingly cosy film where the Baxter’s literally call each other Ma and Pa and are hard-working, honest Christian types. However, Clarence Brown’s film mixes sentiment with just enough bitter realism to make for a harder-edged experience than you might expect. That seeps through no matter how much the film is wrapped in gorgeous technicolour. The Oscar winning photography by Arthur Arling, Charles Rosher and Leonard Smith is full of gorgeous skylines and striking warm reddish firelight glows in huts, skilfully mixing locations and studio, all washed down with Herbert Stothart’s richly romantic score.

But it’s often the case films about children and animals are as much tragedies about an absence of love as they are about the sweetness of a child’s bond with one of God’s creatures. That’s certainly the case with The Yearling, a beloved family film that is more hard-hitting than you might expect, not least in the shocking ending of Jody and Flag’s friendship that traumatised generations. The real reason for Jody’s unbreakable love for this wild animal is knowing he’s been effectively rejected by his distant mother who has bottled up her emotions so tightly, only her husband knows how much she cares.

Jane Wyman is arguably the finest part of the film – and one of the easiest to overlook. Wyman’s Ora is beaten down by years of grinding work, relentless poverty and the never-ending blows of child-loss. She can seem humourless and sour, her contribution to a night of family storytelling being a flat, fact-filled statement. Wyman isn’t afraid to make her feel like a strict, hard-to-love mother who constantly corrects Jody. But there are hints throughout, from her quiet delight at the gift of fabric to her anxiety when Pa plans to take their son bear hunting, that lets us know this is a woman of great emotion, terrified to let it show. It’s a tough line to walk, but Wyman does it really well.

But you can still understand why young Jody is wary of her – and why he is invested in his relationship with his father. This father is of course Peck, in a role tailor-made for the most decent and unimpeachable of Hollywood’s leading men (even if the patrician Peck is not your first thought for a farmer). Manly but in touch with his feelings, doting but still a firm dad, He can talk to Jody about life but still stare into the middle distance with a mix of grandiosity and sober mannerism with grounded decency and gentleness. He even has a little touch of naughtiness, willingly misleading a bull-headed neighbour on the value of useless dog without once telling a lie about its qualities.

Arguably The Yearling would work better if both Jody’s parents were distant. It would make even clearer the emotional hole in his life that, like his sickly friend Fodderwig, he fills with creatures who are less complex than human beings. But much of the first hour focuses instead on Jody’s life on the farm, learning the ropes alongside his ever patient Pa. And there are lot of ropes: from managing feeble crops, to building fences and hunting. It’s also not exactly safe – something you realise clearly on watching the surprisingly ferocious bear-dog fight Brown stages (I was relieved, and also surprised, Animal Rights gave this the thumbs up) or Pa going to desperate measures to save himself from a snake bite.

Which all serves as a reminder that wild animals and farmland don’t go well together. Possibly because the deer was apparently such a nightmare to shoot – wild animals apparently don’t take direction – there is no attempt to anthropomorphise Flag. It’s clear from the start that, no matter how much this fawn follows Jody around, he’s a liability. One of the first thing Flag does is drink the carefully collected cows milk. As he gets older he tramples or eats crops and no matter how hard Jody slaves on fences and other means to try and stop Flag. This is the hardened realism under The Yearling’s romance.

Of course, Pa never should have allowed Jody to keep the animal in the first place. Ma certainly never would, but that’s probably why Pa does. It’s only storing up trouble for a sensitive boy. Jody is a caring boy who treats people with kindness, but also strikes out when he feels he is treated poorly (he even throws a stone at the daughter of the trading store who mocks his nervous affection). A more challenging film than The Yearling may well have pushed us to recognise the lack of human complexity in Flag is probably the main attraction to Jody, but you can still pick that up.

Claude Jarmon Jnr does a decent job as this young child, even if Clarence Brown lets him breakdown into tear-soaked blubbing once too often (even Peck later mocked the film as the one where “the kid cried too much”). But The Yearling is good at depicting the innocence of childhood, where every day is an adventure and a trusted Pa can make everything turn out well. Learning that the world is not exactly like that is the focus of The Yearling’s closing act, and while its answers are generally fairly simplistic and lean towards reassuring, they are delivered with a certain satisfying emotional heft.

It’s part of what makes it such an iconic family film. Because sometimes the ones that stick with us are the tough coming-of-age tales that start with the magic of childhood adventures and end with unbearable sacrifices on the way to cathartic emotional discoveries. The Yearling has a lot of this, probably why it’s been such a reliable crowd pleaser for decades.

The Alamo (1960)

Wayne’s historical epic is a mediocre labour-of-love that takes a very, very long time to get to its moments of interest

Director: John Wayne

Cast: John Wayne (Col Davy Crockett), Richard Widmark (Col. Jim Bowie), Laurence Harvey (Col. William Barrett Travis), Richard Boone (General Sam Houston), Frankie Avalon (Smitty), Patrick Wayne (Captain James Butler Bohham), Linda Cristal (Graciela), Joan O’Brien (Sue Dickinson), Chill Wills (Beekeeper), Joseph Calleira (Juan Seguin), Ken Curtis (Captain Almaron Dickinson), Carlos Arruza (Lt Reyes), Hank Worden (Parson)

John Wayne believed in America as a Shining City on a Hill and he wanted films that celebrated truth, justice and rugged perseverance. To him, what better story of fighting against all odds and to the bitter end for liberty, than the Battle of the Alamo? There, in 1836, a few hundred soldiers and volunteers from the Republic of Texas bravely stood before an army of over two thousand Mexicans to defend the Texas Revolution’s independence from Mexico. Wayne put his money where his mouth was, pouring millions of his own dollars into bringing the story to the screen. Furthermore, he’d direct and produce himself, convinced only he could protect his vision.

The end result isn’t quite the disaster the film has gained a reputation for being – nor is Wayne’s directorial efforts as useless as his detractors would like. But The Alamo is a long, long slog (almost three hours) towards about fifteen minutes of stirring action, filled with pages and pages of awkward speechifying, hammy acting and painfully unfunny comedy. While a bigger hit than people remember, Wayne lost almost every dime he put in (he said it was a fine investment) and even a muscular series of favour-call-ins that netted it seven Oscar nominations (including Best Picture!) couldn’t disguise that The Alamo is a thoroughly mediocre film that far outstays its welcome.

Wayne collaborated closely with his favourite writer, James Edward Grant. Both had a weakness for overwritten speeches and there is an awful lot of them in The Alamo’s opening half as we await the arrival of the Mexicans. Wayne gets several speeches about the glories of the American way such as (and this is cut down) “Republic. I like the sound of the word…Some words can give a feeling that makes your heart warm. Republic is one of those words” or a musing on duty that takes up a solid five minutes (it’s ironic Widmark’s Bowie refers to Harvey’s Travis as a long-winded jackanapes, since Wayne’s Crockett has them both beat).

There is only so much portentous, middle-distance-starring talk one can take before you start twitching in your seat, even for the most pro-Republican viewer. With complete creative control, there was no one to tell Wayne to pick up the pace and trim down these scenes. So enamoured was Wayne with Grant’s dialogue, whole scenes are taken up with the Cinemascope camera sitting gently in rooms watching the actors pontificate about politics, strategy and duty at such inordinate length you long for the Mexicans to damn well hurry up.

For a film as long as this, there is an awful lot of padding. The first hour shoe-horns in an immensely tedious romantic sub-plot for the increasingly-long-in-the-tooth Wayne (who had been playing veterans for almost 15 years by now) with Linda Cristal’s flamenco-dancing Mexican. We know she’s a hell of a dancer, since we get several showcases for her toe-tapping skills as Crockett’s Tennessee volunteers wile away the evenings. There is a sexless lack of chemistry between Wayne and Cristel, re-enforced by Crockett’s gentleman-like rescuing of Cristel from a lecherous officer, and the whole presence of this sub-plot feels as like a box-ticking exercise to appeal to as many viewers as possible as does the casting of young heart-throb Frankie Avalon in a key supporting role.

This is still preferable to the rather lamentable comic relief from a host of Wayne’s old muckers, playing a collection of Good Old Boy Tennesse volunteers. These jokers swop wise-cracks, prat-falls, good-natured fisticuffs, but (inevitably) also drip with honour and decency. Chief among them is Chill Wills as Beekeeper, a scenery-chewing performance of competent comic timing that inexplicably garnered Wills an Oscar nomination. Wills made real history with an outrageously tacky campaign for the golden man, shamelessly publicly pleading for votes and including a full-page Variety advert (‘The cast of The Alamo are praying harder than the real Texans prayed for their lives in the Alamo for Chill Wills to win!’) that even Wayne denounced as tasteless.

Wayne believed the real Oscar nominee should have been Laurence Harvey as ram-rod stickler-for-form Colonel Travis, commander of The Alamo. He’s probably right (if you were going to honour anyone here), as Harvey’s abrasive style and stiff formality was a good fit for the role and he turns the brave-but-hard-to-like Travis into the most interesting character. He’s more interesting than Widmark’s rough-and-ready Bowie, who looks uncomfortable: he would have been better casting as Crockett. That role went to Wayne, after investors said his presence in a lead role was essential for the box office (reluctant as Wayne was, he still cast himself in the most dynamic, largest role).

There are qualities in The Alamo – and they are largely squeezed into the final thirty minutes as the siege begins in earnest. This sequence is very well done, full of well-cut action and shot on an impressive scale. The money is certainly up-on-the-screen – The Alamo built a set only marginally smaller than the actual Alamo and recruited a cast of actors not too dissimilar from the size of the actual Mexican army. (The only nominations The Alamo deserved were related to production and sound design, both of which are impressive). The relentless final stand is undeniably exciting – whether it’s worth the long wait to get there is another question.

The Alamo largely avoids vilifying the Mexicans. Their commanders may be little more than extras, but Wayne’s was aware that in the Cold War, allies were crucial so the film is littered with praise for the bravery, courage and honour of the Mexicans as battle rages (‘Even as I killed ‘em, I was proud of ‘em’ one volunteer muses). However, in many ways, The Alamo is incredibly simplistic and naïve about American history – especially the ‘original sin’ of slavery, the banning of which in Mexico was one of the main reasons for the Texans revolt. It’s hard not to feel it’s a bit rich for Wayne to make a big speech about freedom, when Crockett and co were literally laying down their lives for the Texan Republic’s right to keep slaves. The only slave in the film is so overwhelmingly happy with Bowie, he literally refuses his freedom and lays down his life to protect his master.

But then that’s because The Alamo is a proud piece of propaganda, celebrating a rose-tinted view of American History that avoids complexity and celebrates everyone as heroes. It’s not the disaster you might have heard about. It has its moments. But its still a dull, tedious trek.

Rio Grande (1950)

John Wayne is the Colonel regretting past mistakes in Rio Grande

Director: John Ford

Cast: John Wayne (Lt Colonel Kirby Yorke), Maureen O’Hara (Kathleen Yorke), Victor McLaglen (Sergeant Major Quincannon), Ben Johnson (Trooper Travis Tyree), Claude Jarmon Jnr (Trooper Jefferson Yorke), Harry Carey Jnr (Trooper “Sandy” Boone), Chill Wills (Dr Wilkins), J. Carrol Naish (General Philip Sheridan)

John Ford’s next project was meant to be The Quiet Man, his Ireland-set passion project. However the studio, Republic Pictures, were not convinced the expensive picture could ever be a hit (it later became one of their biggest hits and only Best Picture nominee). So they told Ford he could make it on condition that he, and his proposed stars Wayne and O’Hara, first made a good old-fashioned Western. Because they sure as hell knew they could sell that. So Ford turned out the third and final picture in his “Cavalry” trilogy, three interconnected films (the others being Fort Apache and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon) with loosely connected themes and overlapping character names.

Lt Colonel Kirby Yorke (John Wayne) is posted on the Texan frontier, defending the settlers against Apache attacks. When Yorke’s son Jefferson (Claude Jarmon Jnr) – who Yorke wasn’t seen in almost eighteen years – washes out of West Point, he volunteers to join Yorke’s regiment as an ordinary Trooper. This leads to the arrival of his mother – and Yorke’s estranged wife – Kathleen (Maureen O’Hara arriving at the Fort, eager to get her son out of an enlisted life she feels isn’t right for him. But Yorke is determined there will be no special treatment for his son, never mind how dangerous are starting to get with the Apaches.

Rio Grande is a professionally assembled, classic Ford western that hits all the marks you could expect in terms of action, excitement and that romantic version of the West that you might expect from Ford. But it’s perhaps so professionally assembled it still feels like one for the money at times – it’s a collection of all you might expect from a Ford classic, so much so it doesn’t feel like it offers much new among the director’s other works.

It’s most interesting parts revolve around John Wayne’s complex performance as a man who has buried his emotions beneath a cover of professionalism. Yorke is now martinet, but he’s a man who has put duty above his personal relations. It’s easy to forget that in many of his iconic roles Wayne was often the veteran, and here is man nearing retirement, loaded down with regrets and secretly crying out for a chance at reconciliation. Wayne’s performance is heartfelt and tinged with sadness, the sort of man who looks at his son from a distance as he performs dangerous horse riding stunts, but then backs away into the shadows, anxious that his fatherly concern remains unseen. It’s a quiet, lonely and sad performance from Wayne, a reminder of what a soulful actor he could be.

It also helps that he has wonderful chemistry with Maureen O’Hara, equally wonderful as his wife. A caring and loving woman, O’Hara’s Kathleen is also determined and independent, sure of her own mind and with no compunction about standing her ground against her husband. The two of them make a wonderful pair, two people who fear they have turned their backs on happiness for duty but secretly desperate for reconciliation. That desire certainly drips from Wayne, whose sad eyes beneath his drooping moustache seem to be constantly searching for grasping something from his life – and Ford certainly knew how to shoot this American icon with angles that made him appear like a mournful monument.

The actual plot of the film outside of this isn’t really that strong. Any shade or depth is removed from the Apaches who are faceless, ruthless killers who move like a swarm and spend the nights dancing and drinking after a victory. Even at the time there were feelings that the film was uncomfortably slanted in its view of the Native Americans. The actual story of the battle against the Apache meanders across the screen, with discussions of crossing the Rio Grande to do battle with them largely forgotten in a final act kidnap plotline that serves as the film’s action set piece.

Honestly, most of the plot outside of whether Wayne, O’Hara and son (played with an earnest honesty by Claude Jarmon Jnr) pretty much is by the numbers stuff. There are a host of songs and musical interjections from contemporary Western group Sons of the Pioneers. Ford made a virtue of the studio’s decision to include the band – apparently they loved being in the film and led a number of impromptu sing-alongs during the late night cast sessions, which basically led to Ford putting more of them in the film. The songs do add a wistful, whimsical air to the film which actually works rather well and mirrors nicely the personal drama of a family unit which duty is keeping apart.

The action when it kicks in is enjoyable, even if Ford relies a little too heavily on over cranked cameras to adjust the speed of various falls and horse riding stunts – the sped up effect actually often makes the whole thing look a little too reminiscent at times of keystone kops silent film. The best stunt sequence is done instead in real time, as Johnson, Carey Jnr and Jarmon Jnr take it in turns to “Roman Ride” two horses at a time around a course. Johnson and Carey – skilled horsemen – spent weeks training, the effect was so good that Ford suggested Jarmon have a go.

The cast is rounded out by some solid work from Ford regulars. McLaglen is good value as a decent Sergeant, one of those comic Irish types that Ford had such fondness for. Johnson is very good as a trooper on the run from the law who can’t resist coming back to the do the right thing. But the film belongs to Wayne and O’Hara, a couple looking to seize a last chance at happiness. Rio Grande may be one for the money, but it’s still got a touch of that Ford magic.