Perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect Jon Favreau’s Cowboys and Aliens to live up to its nutty high concept, but as the flaccid, soulless, festering end product stands now, it’s a testament to a complete waste of limitless potential and a rock-solid cast, not to mention 165 million dollars. That obscene budget doesn’t factor in the costs of a supersaturation ad campaign or all the overtime paid to the overworked, sleep deprived ILM techies slaving away at computer consoles running the latest version of Maya, rendering photorealistic, goopy CGI extraterrestrials for months on end in order to meet an impossible deadline. While the film convincingly masquerades as a generic Acid Western for the first reel and a half,  CGI overload soon kicks in, ever escalating toward a migraine-inducing, incomprehensible, clangorous third act filled with plot conveniences, deus-ex-machina rescues, cringeworthy attempts at humor, and laughably half-assed grasping at some kind of underlying moral to the whole agonizing mess. What else would you expect from the brain trust behind the Transformers trilogy and the insipid Iron Man saga? At the same time it is kind of fascinating as a singular piece of cultural detritus, an inexplicable fusion of 1970s New Hollywood cynicism with the mind-numbing spectacle of today.

We start conventionally enough with Daniel Craig, the mysterious rugged stranger and requisite Man with No Name, awakening in the desert with amnesia, a nonfatal thorax wound, and a bizarre electronic doodad affixed to his wrist. After dispatching a trio of filthy scalphunters, he makes his way to the ironically named cookie-cutter hamlet of Absolution, and within minutes is getting some topnotch frontier surgery from drunken doctor/priest Clancy Brown, which is interrupted by gunfire from the official Town Miscreant, a delightfully weaselly Paul Dano. Turns out he’s been extorting booze from meek barkeep Sam Rockwell by bullying-by-proxy with threats of retribution from his Paw, a local livestock baron, Civil War veteran and all-purpose surly rich asshole named Dollarhyde (surely a reference to the psychotic Tooth Fairy from Red Dragon). If you’re keeping count of all the Western cliches, you’ve already used up all ten of your fingers by now and are starting to count with your toes; keep in mind we aren’t even into the second reel yet.

Right on schedule, Craig asserts his dominance and disables a petulant Dano without uncrossing his arms, enabling the grizzled yet kindly town Sheriff (a nigh-unrecognizable Keith Carradine) to throw the shrimp into lockup. But wouldn’t you know it, turns out our ostensible hero is a wanted outlaw named Jake Lonergan, boasting a list of offenses longer than a cattle drive and enough stolen loot to his name to fill a Conestoga wagon. Needless to say, our protagonist barely has enough time to knock back a couple complementary shots of whiskey, and reject the rather aggressive advances of fair maiden Olivia Wilde (née Cockburn) before Carradine and his deputies stride in and get manhandled by the hesitantly badass hero. Apropos enough, since he rejects the lady’s advances for no reason other than his boilerplate Reluctant Protagonist Beat Sheet demands it, she knocks him out with the butt of a long rifle for no reason other than the necessity of the Act 2 Plot Point.

Rounding out the roster of Western stock characters is Harrison Ford as the one-dimensional Dollarhyde; though his dramatic introduction is meant to be both a knowing wink at the audience and a surprise reveal, the shock of seeing Ford’s craggy visage and hearing his snarling gravelly voice will be spoiled considerably by anyone who’s been exposed to the film’s relentless ad campaign. Ford is introduced during a very strange, brutal sequence in which he tortures a a helpless flunky by stretching him between two opposite-facing horses, while accusing him of “blowing up my cattle”; natch, he refuses to believe the flunky’s truthful assertion that aliens fired an explosive pulse at him and his fellow cowhands, and fixates on the cockamamie idea that the flunky somehow gets off on exploding his boss’s livestock (and fellow cowhands).

He’s fixing to re-enact a certain scene from The Hitcher when he gets word that Dano’s in the pokey; instead of pulling him in twain, he cuts one of the ropes and sends the lead horse away at full gallop, presumably dragging the flunky over miles of rough terrain to a prolonged, painful demise. Of course the screenplay by Michael Bay whores Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci doesn’t bother to delve into Dollarhyde’s terrifying character (or even check back on his poor innocent flunky), because he’s merely a stick figure existing for the sole reason of driving the horseshit plot forward. He doesn’t even have time to develop as an antagonist because soon, oh so very soon, the horseshit’s about to hit the cotton gin fan.

For those of you still following along, the rest of this review will be dissecting the disastrous third act of Cowboys and Aliens, so if you must see this, and must be unaware of the retarded “surprises” in store, bully for you. Stop reading after this short ‘graph. Take my advice and bring along a fifth of whiskey, mix it with a giant 44 ounce soft drink, and take a swig for every Western Cliche, and take an extra long drink every time someone says the word “demons”. Good luck and Godspeed.

Now that we’re free to discuss the entirety of Kurtzman and Orci’s birdcage lining screenplay, let’s start by spoiling the obvious: Those Fucking Aliens.

Who are they? What are they? Where did they come from? Even when everything’s explained in a boring, massive, unimaginative and interminable  exposition dump, the answers to these basic questions are still frustratingly oblique. One thing we do know beyond the shadow of a doubt is that they time all their attacks with clockwork precision. No sooner than Ford and his torch-bearing army of thugs are confronting mellow, peace-loving Sheriff Carradine as he loads the two shackled prisoners into the stagecoach, and the plot is threatening to become interesting, those damned aliens show up and begin decimating the Greater Absolution Metropolitan Area. Then, in the first of many lazy plot conveniences, Lonergan’s mechanical wrist bracelet begins whirring and beeping and blooping and projecting holographic readouts; for some reason Craig acts stoic and kind of bored when this magical plot device begins doing its witchcraft. Within seconds he’s blasted himself out of the stage, broken Dano’s arm, and shot down an alien spacecraft in as blase a manner as humanly possible; meanwhile all manner of townsfolk are being lassoed by these ships and yanked violently into the air, turning them into CGI stunt doubles in the blink of an eye.

Presumably because it would involve logical leaps too extreme for even this script to solve with some psuedoscientific quasi-mystical gobbledygook, the remaining townsfolk are guided to the aliens’ not-so-discreet headquarters by the pilot of the shot-down spacecraft, who somehow managed to transport him/her/itself from the wreckage and flee the battlefield, leaving behind a trail of slime and comically large footprints. There isn’t even an attempt at explaining how this happens, it simply happens because the almighty Plot must be driven forward with as little downtime as possible. Anyone with half a brain can surmise, from here, where the alien track will lead the posse of survivors, who will lead this posse, the dynamics among all the posse members, and the order in which they will be picked off for the obligatory attempts at pathos.

It’s a shame that talented character actors like Clancy Brown and Sam Rockwell have to waste their formidable talents delivering expository dialogue before bland, interchangeable outdoor vistas (even though there’s an early scene, clearly improvised, where the two riff off each other hilariously; a much better movie could have been made about these two clowns trying to defeat the alien menace) and the lush anamorphic photography of Matthew Libatique starts off agreeably vivid and auburn-tinted, then gets progressively drearier and browner until we wind up in murky Heaven’s Gate territory faster than you can say “poo on the lens”.

So why do the evil E.T.’s abduct the humans? Because the Plot demands it. Because it would have been way too easy for the humans to avoid the conflict altogether by forming a wagon train and skedaddling Eastward. As we learn after a head-splittingly retarded plot contrivance, which facilitates the aforesaid Massive Exposition Dump (a scene involving a gaggle of Native American extras straight out of Central Casting, a scenery-gobbling Harrison Ford and a bowl full of peyote extract), these unnamed, personality-free extraterrestrial evildoers are little more than interstellar gold prospectors dissecting Earthlings as a kind of hobby, sort of, I guess. Like much of their motivation, save for the gold mining bullshit,  it’s left entirely to the imagination and based entirely on cliches. In other words, they’re no more well-rounded than the cast of humans. At least Kurtzman and Orci are consistent in their laziness.

Favreau, too, is becoming increasingly consistent with his soulless, generic, hyper-commercial mass-market spectacle flicks; Iron Man was the death knell for this once promising indie filmmaker, but that wasteful, pointless project was Bergman-level compared to the completely whitewashed studio slickness of Cowboys and Aliens. Whereas Iron Man was consistently hijacked by a maniacal, constantly improvising Robert Downey Jr. and stood out from the homogeneous pack of superhero garbage as a result, Cowboys is entirely subservient to a deadening, formulaic screenplay that leaves precious little breathing room for characterization and a series of monotonous CGI action sequences that are every bit as soporific and inscrutable as John Ford’s action was fiery, urgent, and immaculately choreographed. He barely moves his camera, favoring boring static shots edited to a sluggish, logy rhythm. The prosaic, unmemorable, entirely generic and un-Western-like score by Harry Gregson-Williams does no favors for the film’s energy either.

By the time we lumber to the conclusion, involving alien architecture inspired by ideas lifted from H.R. Giger’s rubbish bin, more plot conveniences courtesy of the Magical Alien Bracelet, and the laughable reveal of the film’s ultimate (and only) antagonist, what little spark the film had has long since dimmed, Favreau is just feebly trying to end the damn thing, and worst of all, it shows. There’s no passion behind the scenes, no real purpose or ultimate message or creativity in sight. After a jaw-droppingly lame action beat consisting of Craig firing his Magic Bracelet into a tunnel, gorily decimating wave after wave of humanoid goopy Space Invaders with no apparent effort or strategy involved, the evil alien doctor, who I’ll christen “Doctor Scarface”, shows up and menaces our hero for a good minute or two before a deus-ex-machina cavalry rescue reduces him to a pile of CGI goo. Then there’s yet another dramatic suicide bombing drenched in bathetic, phony holier-than-thou greater-good nonsense (though the film would have been genuinely subversive had the Preacher survived and claimed God was going to reward him in Paradise before blowing himself to smithereens), which is starting to become kind of a disturbing trend in Hollywood movies oriented toward Westernized Christian audiences.

The cynicism mentioned earlier isn’t so much contained within the barebones screenplay as it is within the formulaic, lockstep construction of the film itself. The purpose of Cowboys and Aliens isn’t to enlighten or even subvert its mashed-up genres (as what usually happens with strange genre hybrids, neither genre is given its due and the ultimate product is a formless mess); no, its only purpose is to make money by selling action figures, tie-in video games, and copies of the comic book the film was based on. There is not even the slightest attempt at sneaking in any kind of message or sneaking the tiniest glimmer of self-awareness past the draconian producers, save for the final scene.

The evil capitalist Dollarhyde and his son, who just needed to be abducted by aliens to bring him down to earth (so to speak) have inherited the town as well as the gold mine established by the extraterrestrial miners. Despite having a wrecked spacecraft in the middle of the town square, and a few dozen alien corpses in the desert, their technology hasn’t advanced one iota, and what should be a haven for the world’s scientific minds to contemplate and reverse-engineer inconceivable technology, not to mention examine the origins of organic life, is instead just another boring railroad town. Nobody mentions the aliens after the climactic suicide bombing. The status quo has returned, the bad guys have triumphed and will doubtless continue their legacy of corruption for generations to come, ruling over this town with an iron fist full of blood money. The film implies that the very existence of the aliens has been completely covered up.

As for our protagonist, who let’s not forget is an erstwhile outlaw and murderer, every woman who has dared accept his loving caresses has met a horrible death at the hands of goopy interstellar psychopaths, and his brain chemistry is irrevocably screwed up by a potent combination of alien mind-wiping, PTSD, and alcoholism. Does he stay to become Dollarhyde’s lieutenant in his new reign of terror? Regretfully not, although that would have been an ultimately cynical way to end the picture. Instead he rides off alone to his all-too-inevitable fate as a brain-damaged loner destined for a bleak future as a deranged hermit.

The ruthless tycoons win, the men of honor either die for nothing (at least disclosing the existence of the aliens would have validated the horrible deaths of all those Native Americans) or become permanently mind-fucked. Those in the audience will also be mind-fucked in the sense that more and more of their brain cells will rot away with every passing minute of the running time. As Kanbei says at the end of Seven Samurai (a film that is as masterful and trendsetting as this film is pandering and regressive), “They are the winners. Not us.”

As the last gasp of New Hollywood, the disastrous release of Heaven’s Gate marks the exact point in cinematic history when the Glorious Nihilism of the 1970s suddenly gave way to the Hedonistic Excess of the 1980s. Lord knows what compelled the young, hip executives at United Artists to spend a then scandalous $44 million on an epic, downbeat “Anti-Western” about the plight of Eastern European immigrants in Wyoming, but the end result is nowhere near as disastrous as its reputation suggests. Heaven’s Gate is a handsomely mounted, engrossing epic that demands a great deal of patience from the viewer and doles out ample rewards for those who endure its considerable running time.

Much like its spiritual predecessor, 1978′s critically lauded The Deer Hunter, there is a significant amount of pomp and circumstance before we are transported to the gritty immediacy of the untamed frontier. It’s perfectly understandable to be put off by the glacially paced Harvard graduation ceremony comprising the first 20 odd minutes of the film; we’re introduced to salt-of-the-earth protagonist Kris Kristofferson and his intellectual buddy John Hurt, the protagonist’s soon-to-be-forgotten lady love, and about 500 other anonymous souls who appear only during this extended sequence. One of these fleeting presences is that of old Hollywood stalwart Joseph Cotten,  his career well into its irreversible downward spiral; he fittingly delivers some muttered dialogue before vanishing altogether during a scene where John Hurt delivers a speech derived from Rudyard Kipling’s “White Man’s Burden” ethos in front of  hundreds of extras packed into an auditorium. The 2.20:1 widescreen ably packs in detail during this and the following dance-in-the-round, which would be more thrilling if it wasn’t choreographed to Strauss’ Blue Danube Waltz, a piece of music that will forever be associated with Stanley Kubrick and the space station docking in 2001.

While that musical choice may have been ill-advised, the brass band playing The Battle Hymn of the Republic while graduating students toss countless top hats in the air suggests a sinister subtext to the ceremony: these kids are newly minted warriors marching off to a commencement address (where John Hurt educates them about Manifest Destiny and “striving for excellence”) before going to fight their own wars. Be it the Industrial Revolution or Westward Expansion, America was going through some violent change in the late 19th century. As expansive as this sequence is, it’s still marred by quite a few editorial blemishes. There must have been a great deal cut out with Cotten and Kristofferson’s paramour, since even in Cimino’s director’s cut (the only acceptable presentation of Heaven’s Gate until the fabled 5 1/2 hour preview cut sees the light of day) there are meaningful glances exchanged with significant characters who don’t ever reappear, people introduced who have no part to play later on. During yet another strange ritual, John Hurt is beaten down by a rowdy mob while Kristofferson rises to retrieve a thrown object from a tree, then is hoisted upon various shoulders and borne away. Perhaps some explanatory material was excised, but the shoulder hoisting serves as an intriguing transitional cue.

There’s a graceful slow dissolve from the hero’s brief moment of glory on the Harvard campus, being carried off as a champion of the  Class of 1870 while his ladylove watches from a high window, to a much older Kristofferson in a train car as he awakens from an alcoholic stupor while beams of light pierce the smoky interior. Welcome to Heaven. There’s an awful lot of storytelling done here without using any dialogue: the look he gives to the conductor when the train stops at his destination says volumes without anyone saying a damn thing. The glory days are gone with the wind, much like his Harvard lady and his youthful idealism; 22 years of joy have vanished with alarming efficiency. Natch, the only solace to be found comes in a bottle or a flask. When it comes time to exit the train, Kris is too drunk to stand upright.

Somehow he makes it off without sustaining serious injury, and we’re in the Old West, and buddy, it sure as hell deserves to be capitalized. Every dollar of the film’s enormous budget is on screen, from the lush Harvard greens to a dusty brown Montana town built from the ground up. This isn’t your generic backlot frontier village with the single saloon, the barbershop, the hotel, and a handful of denizens. These streets are PACKED with extras. Literally teeming with activity. People clogging the avenues like insects, blocking the passage of horse-drawn carriages. It’s Johnson County, 1892, at the height of a population boom, and you don’t doubt it for a second.

No Western is complete without a Prostitute with a Heart of Gold, and while it may be a purely cinematic invention, an inherent fallacy, French cupcake Isabelle Huppert and her wonderful derrirere are more than up to the task of giving some small amount of pleasure to Grizzled Lawman Kris. She’s on some sort of extended loan from the local brothel madam, and she wants nothing more than to go off with her boyfriend to greener pastures. But there’s a big big problem that needs sorting out first. A problem that just happens to come with a mustache and a dapper wardrobe.

Who better to play a dastardly yet weirdly sympathetic villain than Chris Walken? He has one hell of a great introduction, too. The scene initially follows humble Mr. Kovacs, a Ukranian immigrant farmer, as he bickers with his wife and teaches his son how to butcher a flank of beef. Then there’s an ominous silence, followed by muted footsteps and a sinister shadow falling across a sheet hung up on a clothesline. Kovacs’ confused cries are met only by a mysterious cocking sound, and then BOOM!! A hole opens up in the sheet, introducing Walken, and a hole opens up in Kovacs’ torso, introducing him to the Great Beyond.  Our farmer becomes little more than another slab of meat, juxtaposed against butchered beef as his freshly minted widow howls curses at the heavens while Walken’s walkin’ off.

Chris may be a bastard, but he’s only a tool motivated by a considerable bounty on certain Eastern European immigrants. Farmer Kovacs is just one of around 150 names on a “death list” prepared by Sam Waterston and his gang of rich landowning Honky buddies. Taking Kipling’s message to heart, the conspiracy is set up to eliminate “undesirables” who are mostly honest family men lumped in with a handful of small-time cattle rustlers. Under the guise of law and order, the foreigners who do all the hard work are eliminated while the white men roll in to clean up the mess created by their own hired guns. Ingenious, and ironic too, since these white men are descended from immigrants themselves.

One of Cimino’s pet obsessions has to do with the exploitation of immigrants and the self-serving absurdity of American foreign policy; the Russian steelworking community aiding an unjust war in The Deer Hunter, for example, or Mickey Rourke’s impassioned speech about Chinese immigrants building the Transcontinental Railroad in the otherwise mediocre Year of the Dragon. Here, the immigration issue takes center stage, providing the bulk of the action and conflict against this sprawling Western canvas. When the immigrants aren’t being slain outright, they’re struggling to get by without the aid of horses or 20th century technology. Yet they manage.

The bits of enjoyment these farming communities can take away from endless days of toil and casual discrimination can be found at the local church, the eponymous Heaven’s Gate, where after preacher Brad Dourif pounds the pulpit for a while, the seats are cleared and the arena is converted into a skating rink. There’s plenty of song and dance and drink to be had, but for some adults-only fun there’s the brothel or the cockfighting pit behind Jeff Bridges’ bar. The Dude himself, skillfully switching between a Russian dialect and his usual Southern Californian English, throws his own cock in the ring and manages to win by spewing alcohol in its face. Yes, this is the same Michael Cimino who somehow came up with the trunk full of rabbits in Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, which also features Bridges in drag for most of its bizarre third act. Bridges similarly acts as sidekick here, an unofficial deputy aiding in the land wars. Sadly he does not utilize his cockfighting skills at a later point.

Does the profile at the right of the frame look familiar? Sure enough, it’s Willem Dafoe hanging out in the background of the cockfight. Perhaps he has money riding on one of these cocks, or perhaps his nameless immigrant enjoys the communal promotion of grisly fowl-on-fowl violence. Don’t worry, cock lovers: these fights aren’t nearly as graphic or prolonged as those in Monte Hellman’s Cockfighter, although there is a distinct lack of Warren Oates for which Cimino’s film suffers slightly. Kristofferson was also born to perform in Westerns, and his previous work with Sam Peckinpah might have prepared him for this turbulent shoot. When Sherriff Kris comes in to settle a dispute, his thousand-yard glare is way more intimidating than either his speech or his holstered six-shooters. Needless to say, Willem Dafoe manages to upstage him just by looking bemused in the background.

A veritable rogue’s gallery of supporting characters adds plenty of flavor to the Western milieu, as if the lavish production design already didn’t assure complete historical authenticity. As a result, the narrative thrust of Heaven’s Gate is burdened with at least a dozen subplots and unnecessary characters that do little but distract from the main storyline that leisurely oscillates between Kris and Chris vying for the affections of Isabelle Huppert and the impending Johnson County War. There may be some ancient Hollywood rule that mandates saddling every sweeping historical epic with that most despised of literary devices: the love triangle.

Besides making this overstuffed film even more so, the scenes with Walken awkwardly romancing Huppert don’t exactly ring true, and there is little to occupy the viewer’s interest outside of Huppert’s wildly darting eyes as she internally struggles with her competing affections. Walken offers impulsive adventure, Kristofferson offers stability as well as some damn good country/western guitar skills. Who to choose? Who to decide? Who to care? Huppert obligingly strips her garments whenever possible, but this isn’t enough to make up for a shoddily written character whose only decisions are made for her, and whose sole proactive decision is laughable at best, suicidal at worst. But she looks great in period garb, that much is undeniable.

The tension that unexpectedly builds up during Walken’s visit to the cathouse comes not from the romantic entanglements but rather from whether or not he’s gonna put a hole in the skull of an immigrant John who pays for sexual favors with stolen livestock. Likewise, you don’t really buy his relationship with Kristofferson, which always toes the line between begrudging tolerance and out-and-out animosity, which we suspect was rooted in an earlier time when they roamed the frontier as bounty hunters. Which would have made for a very interesting story on its own, but it’s just a barely-remarked-upon detail in the hugely ambitious Heaven’s Gate. Walken will always and forever be the creepiest film actor since the much less prolific Max Schreck.

Truth be told, the film takes an awful long time to congeal and tighten up. Cimino’s incomparable sense of time and place takes a backseat to economical pacing; long stretches are devoted to nothing but mood and atmosphere, with Vilmos Zsigmond’s gorgeous location photography supplying equal amounts of stunning vistas and stunningly brown interiors. One scene, where Kristofferson drags a drunken Jeff Bridges out of the skating rink, is so brown that it’s strongly reminiscent of the sepia-toned photography of the silent era, with plenty of grain to validate the comparison. We’ve got every shade of brown you could imagine in this film, perhaps as a result of overused tints or color gels. There was no browner place than Wyoming in 1892, that much is for sure. Outside the town, colors are decidedly more naturalistic. Once Waterston and his crew arrive via train and hit the ground with horses at full gallop, there’s a jaw-droppingly beautiful shot of John Hurt drunkenly lamenting “What have we become?” before seemingly disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Following a necessary intermission, Cimino tightens the screws with a vengeance. Waterston’s gang blows away Ukranians with zealous ferocity, Sheriff Kris informs the surviving immigrants of the vendetta, the townsfolk begin to gather arms, Deputy Jeff takes up arms and watches coldly as the damned love triangle finally resolves itself with Walken issuing an ultimatum to the Sheriff, to which the only response is another slug of Old Rotgut.

Sam Waterston’s underused uppity villain doesn’t get nearly enough screen time, and the character is another sloppily written Western archetype in what is supposed to be a mythical deconstruction of the genre. What self-respecting oater doesn’t have some rich asshole wearing black and twirling his mustache, usually while tying some helpless woman to a set of railroad tracks? In this instance, the sexless villain is given but a handful of scenes to explain his simplistic motivation, and one scene to demonstrate his dedication to the cause. Human life has no value to the conspiratorial landowning Whites, but we already knew that from decades of John Wayne programmers. Since the ruthless native tribes had already been death-marched away to reservations by 1892, the landowners have little to do but take the place of marauding rebel Indian Nations. The only difference is their skin tone and aversion to scalping.

Yet the scene where Walken strides into Waterston’s tent and calls him out for being a pussy is downright chilling for the direct savagery of the response to Walken’s challenge. “Have you ever taken a life?” he asks, as if he already knows the answer. Then, with psychopathic haste, Waterston executes a nearby hostage at point-blank range, then tosses the gun to a nearby Lieutenant who just happens to be played by Terry O’ Quinn (with almost a full head of hair!). Even the amoral Walken is disturbed.

Soon afterward, Walken has tried to pierce together some semblance of a peaceful existence, but even he doesn’t seem to buy this sudden transformation, to say nothing of the audience. Most suspiciously, he’s locked up in a tiny cabin with Mickey Rourke and a creepy man who constantly eats baked beans, with newspaper cutouts serving as wallpaper. It would be kind of chic to have this kind of interior design today, but back then it was kind of tacky. Nonetheless, Walken’s far-ahead-of-his-time sense of home decoration, coupled with his roommates and rather strong attachment to Kristofferson, suggest his character is confused about more than his morality. The cruel twists of fate that conspire to give him a well deserved screwing over don’t supply nearly enough pathos to convince us of his “redemption”. However you may interpret what ultimately happens, his final confrontation with Waterston’s gang is a pretty great action sequence. But Mickey Rourke inspires a hell of a lot more sympathy with just a few short lines of dialogue and a mournful look he gives his roommate at a pivotal point.

Heaven’s Gate dedicates much of its third act to prolonged battle set pieces, massive in scope and scale, even more massive in the budgetary department. Brad Dourif, as the minister turned ad hoc general, barks orders with his broken English and converts his congregation to unarmed infantry and, somehow, is able to construct half a dozen mobile wooden shields with the foreknowledge of their usefulness in the upcoming seige of Waterston’s mercenaries. With this logic gap attributed to some of the excised footage (the battle scene was originally 90 minutes long!), there’s still plenty of ridiculous superhuman feats. How and why Huppert survives her carriage ride is a question best left to God, or more pointedly, the writer/director who suffered from no small Messianic complex.

With countless horses riding in circles around a massed group of gunmen trapped in a square, it’s quite difficult to discern some important details in the battle. Namely who is firing at whom, whose horse is falling over, which bearded hero is murdering which mustachioed mercenary, which immigrant infantryman or woman is being shot.  Through the haze, the only bits of identifiable information consist of Jeff Bridges repeatedly screaming “GET DOWN!!!” and the makeshift army failing to heed these orders. Meanwhile Kristofferson lays waste to innumerable Honkys without suffering any sort of injury, a literal Wrath of God. Thankfully there are some choice wide shots that remove us from the fracas and minimize the struggle with a literal God’s Eye View.

There’s a development that would be considered deus ex machina if it somehow removed the heroes from a tricky predicament, but in this context it’s something much more devious. In spite of an inexplicable epilogue aboard a steamship, the ending of Heaven’s Gate packs a wallop. It’s an unfiltered shot of 200-proof whiskey straight to your eyeballs, as unforgettable as it is devastating. Those who died were indeed the lucky ones. Cimino’s overall vision, while still slightly compromised, comes through with crystal clarity. American “foreign policy” has always and forever been influenced by the industrial forces behind its government, and Conservative xenophobia always starts at home. But where is home, exactly? Who or what decided our standing in our respective social castes? Is it possible to rise above our preordained destinies? Was Kipling right when he wrote “White Man’s Burden”, or was he just laying the foundation for Conservative groupthink? Can the failure of one film truly be responsible for the sudden death of the most glorious cinematic era in American history? Did Michael Cimino get a raw deal, or did United Artists?

Enough rhetorical questions. Heaven’s Gate doesn’t answer any of them, but perhaps Cimino’s overambitious epic will improve in stature over the years. Through all the excess and insanity behind the scenes, a distinctly nihilistic, rough-edged, wholly unique vision emerged. See it.

If there ever was a purely existential Spaghetti Western, then Sergio Corbucci’s The Hellbenders (Italian title I crudeli or “The Cruel Ones”) is it. I was pleasantly surprised by The Hellbenders. I have always thought of Corbucci as a clumsy, overrated director. Navajo Joe is dreadful, Django meanders into silliness, and the frustrating The Great Silence falls far short of being the great Western it deserves to be. But in its quiet, subtle, and gutwrenching way, The Hellbenders demonstrates that Corbucci is capable of creating a nuanced morality tale that brooks no easy answers or easily identifiable protagonists. Indeed, the rock solid, wonderfully hateful, and undeniably charismatic presence of Joseph Cotten as Colonel Jonas makes The Hellbenders a winner. He is such a complete bastard, religious hypocrite, and cruel father that you can’t help but be drawn by his irresistible pull. You have no choice but join him on his journey of madness. This anti-hero perfectly encapsulates the tyranny of family, religion, and state all in one very restrained, quiet, but unforgettable performance.

Jonas is the patriarch of three adorable sons: Ben, Nat, and the he just can’t help himself rapist Jeff. The South just lost the Civil War, but Colonel Jonas, leader of the now defunct Hellbenders regiment, ain’t recognizing Robert E. Lee’s surrender, goddamnit. He and his three sons, along with a drunken blonde named Claire (the lovely floozy Norma Bengell), are on a mission to steal a pile of decommissioned banknotes that are being escorted by soldiers. Claire poses as a Confederate widow with a forged permit to escort her husband and his coffin to its final resting place, with Jonas and his sons pretending to be her family. The booze doesn’t help her maintain her disguise.

Jonas, Nat, and Jeff sneak attack the soldiers by chucking a passel of dynamite at them, and picking off the rest of the survivors sniper-style. It’s a complete massacre, and the violence and stunt work of this scene is shocking and involves a lot of horses getting smacked to the ground. We find out that Jonas intends to use the money to fund a The South Will Rise Again movement, and they conceal the money in the coffin. Ben (Julian Matoes playing the square-jawed “good guy” in a very relative sense) is disgusted by the massacre, and begins to have doubts about his father’s obsession. But he remains loyal to his father, and eventually replaces the drunk with another fake Confederate widow, though this particular woman has no idea what she’s getting into. And given how Claire got “fired,” it’s doubtful Kitty (the hard edged and equally lovely Maria Martin) would have wanted the job. The phrase “one big happy family” does not quite do justice to this crew of desperadoes.

I was impressed by the tight narrative of the film, a welcome contrast to the implausible plot developments of Django and Navajo Joe. The music, scored by the inevitable Ennio Morricone, is wonderfully melancholy, creating a perfect backdrop to the hopeless, mad quest. Jonas is nothing if not a very religious man, insisting that his boys pray to the Almighty before they commit murder. There is a constant undercurrent of piety in the film, sincere and false, that flows from one scene to the next, which helps to pile on the ironies. One wonderfully awkward scene involves Kitty going to the funeral of her “husband,” and consoling an old war buddy of the dead man, who is fortunately blind.

The Hellbenders has a knockout ending, which I suppose is somewhat predictable given the main plot device is a coffin full of cash. But the eventual demise of The Hellbenders paints a lovely portrait of the indifferent universe, and how obsession and evil intentions and love and good intentions matter not a whit in the impartial violence of the desert.