Here’s a cool AP photo from 1951, chronicling Jane Russell’s tub scene in Son Of Paleface (1952). Click it and it gets bigger.
Archive for the ‘1952’ Category
Posted in 1952, 1954, 1956, Alan Ladd, Budd Boetticher, Dale Robertson, Dorothy Malone, DVD reviews, releases, TV, etc., George Sherman, Jeff Chandler, John Sturges, Julie Adams, Lee Marvin, Lee Van Cleef, Mara Corday, Raoul Walsh, Richard Widmark, Rory Calhoun, Universal (-International), Ward Bond on September 22, 2013 | 18 Comments »
Universal’s Vault Series is serving up a handful of 50s Westerns, basically taking the TCM Western Horizons set and selling them as single discs (available exclusively from Amazon).
Horizons West (1952) has Budd Boetticher directing Robert Ryan, Julie Adams and Rock Hudson in a Technicolor post-Civil War tale.
Saskatchewan (1954) puts Alan Ladd, Shelley Winters, J. Carrol Naish and Hugh O’Brian in the hands of the great Raoul Walsh.
Dawn At Socorro (1954) was directed by George Sherman, which is enough for me. Factor in Rory Calhoun, Piper Laurie, Mara Corday, Edgar Buchanan, Skip Homeier, James Millican and Lee Van Cleef, and you’ve really got something going.
Pillars Of The Sky (1956) stars Jeff Chandler and Dorothy Malone. Support comes from Ward Bond, Olive Carey (both appeared in The Searchers the same year) and Lee Marvin. George Marshall directed in CinemaScope. I love this film.
Backlash (1956) comes from John Sturges and stars Richard Widmark, Donna Reed and William Campbell. Good stuff.
These will make a welcome addition to anybody’s collection, but what I want to know is: where are A Day Of Fury (1956) and Last Of The Fast Guns (1958)?
Audie Leon Murphy
(June 20, 1925 – May 28, 1971)
Today’s one of those days that ought to be a national holiday.
Audie’s seen here in Duel At Silver Creek (1952), one of his earlier pictures for Universal.
Posted in 1952, 1954, 1955, 1956, 1957, 1958, 1959, Budd Boetticher, Columbia, Delmer Daves, DVD reviews, releases, TV, etc., Ernest Borgnine, Fred MacMurray, Gary Cooper, George Montgomery, George Sherman, Glenn Ford, Jay Silverheels, Joseph H. Lewis, Phil Karlson, Post-1959, Pre-1950, Randolph Scott, Sam Katzman, Sidney Salkow, Van Heflin, William Castle, William Witney on June 19, 2013 | 14 Comments »
Sony Movie Channel is focusing on Westerns next month, with a terrific all-day marathon scheduled for Sunday, July 28 that should keep readers of this blog firmly planted on their sofas — or scrambling to make room on their DVRs.
The directors represented here — Boetticher, Sherman, Daves, Karlson, Castle, Witney — make up a virtual Who’s Who of 50s Westerns directors. The times listed are Eastern. Put the coffee on, it’s gonna be a long day!
4:40 AM Face Of A Fugitive (1959, above) One of those really cool, tough Westerns Fred MacMurray made in the late 50s. James Coburn has an early role, and Jerry Goldsmith contributed one of his first scores. It’s not out on DVD in the States, and the Spanish one doesn’t look so hot, so don’t miss it here.
6:05 AM Relentless (1948) George Sherman directs Robert Young, Marguerite Chapman, Willard Parker, Akim Tamiroff, Barton MacLane and Mike Mazurki. Shot around Tucson (and the Corrigan Ranch) in Technicolor. I may be in the minority, but I like Robert Young in Westerns.
7:40 AM A Lawless Street (1955) Joseph H. Lewis knocks another one out of the park, directing Randolph Scott and Angela Lansbury. This film doesn’t get the credit it deserves.
9:05 AM Decision At Sundown (1957) Part of Budd Boetticher and Randolph Scott’s Ranown cycle, this one tends to divide fans. I think it’s terrific. It’s certainly more downbeat than the others (Burt Kennedy didn’t write it), with Scott’s character almost deranged vs. the usual obsessed.
10:25 AM The Pathfinder (1952) Sidney Salkow directs George Montgomery in a low-budget adaptation of James Fenimore Cooper, produced by Sam Katzman. Helena Carter and Jay Silverheels round out the cast.
11:45 AM Battle Of Rogue River (1954) William Castle directs George Montgomery (seen above with Martha Hyer) the same year they did Masterson Of Kansas. I’m a real sucker for Castle’s Westerns, so it’s hard to be objective here.
1:05 PM Gunman’s Walk (1958) Phil Karlson’s masterpiece? A great film, with a typically incredible performance from Van Heflin, that really needs to be rediscovered. Not available on DVD in the U.S. Don’t miss it.
2:45 PM They Came To Cordura (1959) Robert Rossen directs a terrific cast — Gary Cooper, Rita Hayworth, Van Heflin, Tab Hunter and Dick York. Set in 1916 Mexico, it has a look somewhat similar to The Wild Bunch (1969). Looks good in CinemaScope.
4:55 PM Jubal (1956, above) Delmer Daves puts Othello on horseback. Glenn Ford, Ernest Borgnine, Rod Steiger, Valerie French, Charles Bronson, Jack Elam, Felicia Farr, Harry Carey, Jr. and John Dierkes make up the great cast. Charles Lawton, Jr. shot it in Technicolor and CinemaScope.
6:40 PM Arizona Raiders (1965) Wiliam Witney directs Audie Murphy in a picture that plays like a cross between a 50s Western and a spaghetti one. Murphy got better as he went along, and his performance here is quite good.
8:20 PM 40 Guns To Apache Pass (1966) Witney and Murphy again. This time around, Murphy is after a missing shipment of guns.
If all that’s not enough, there’s the Back In The Saddle sweepstakes, a chance to win a three-day dude ranch getaway. Check SonyMovieChannel.com to find out more.
Leslie Townes “Bob” Hope
(May 29, 1903 – July 27, 2003)
He’s not a cowboy star. But his Son Of Paleface (1952) — directed by Frank Tashlin and co-starring Jane Russell and Roy Rogers (and Trigger, seen here) — is not only one of the best Western spoofs, but I’d hold it up as a strong contender for Funniest Movie Ever Made.
Bob Hope would be 110 today. And while most of those TV specials are wretched, his movies of the 40s and 50s are terrific and ripe for re-evaluation. OK, now I gotta watch Son Of Paleface.
Paula Vitaris, who runs that great Ben Johnson site (and has been a huge help with my One-Eyed Jacks book), is having a good day. Wild Stallion (1952) is a picture she’s been asking Warner Archive about since the beginning. And they’ve announced it for May release.
I’ve never seen it, but anything with Ben Johnson, Edgar Buchanan, Martha Hyer and Hugh Beaumont in it — from Monogram in Cinecolor — is well worth tracking down. Can’t wait.
Thanks to John Knight for another tip.
I’m really happy to have been involved, even to a tiny extent, with the CD release of a couple of 50s Western scores — Paul Dunlap’s score for Hellgate (1952) and Bert Shefter’s music for The Tall Texan (1953) — from David Schecter’s label Monstrous Movie Music. Both are Lippert pictures, available on DVD from Kit Parker and VCI.
Over the course of his career, Paul Dunlap scored over a hundred films, mostly B movies of various sorts — from I was A Teenage Werewolf (1957) to Shock Corridor (1963). There were lots of Westerns: Jack Slade (1953), Stranger On Horseback (1955), The Quiet Gun (1956) and Oregon Trail (1959), to name just a few. While Dunlap wasn’t a big fan of some of the films he worked on, his name’s on some films I love. Every seen Big House U.S.A. or Shack Out On 101 (both 1955)?
Hellgate is an excellent film, a low-budget reworking of John Ford’s Prisoner Of Shark Island (1936). Sterling Hayden, Ward Bond, Joan Leslie and James Arness are directed by Charles Marquis Warren. It’s obvious Dunlap liked this film, and he came through with a terrific score. The CD presents the music in sequence, cue by cue, from a set of original acetates (a few cues have been lost to time). Dunlap’s score for The Lost Continent, a 1951 sci-fi picture starring Cesar Romero, is also included.
Bert Shefter was a Russian-born concert pianist and conductor. He scored his first film in 1950 and by the time he retired, had more than 60 movies and hundreds and hundreds of TV shows to his credit. His scores include Cattle Empire (1958), Return Of The Fly (1959) and Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965). His work on It! The Terror From Beyond Space (1958) really knocked me out. Like Dunlap, Shefter never coasted, never give less than 100% — even if if the picture didn’t really deserve it.
The Tall Texan was directed by Elmo Williams, the Oscar-winning editor of High Noon, and shot by Joseph Biroc. A solid, low-budget 50s Western (it cost just $100,000), it stars Lloyd Bridges, Marie Windsor and Lee J. Cobb. Shefter gives themes to several of the main characters, including a menacing piece for the Indians, and makes good use of a couple popular tunes, “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and “Blow The Man Down.”
I really like these films, and it’s easy to recommend these CDs. Monstrous Movie Music has assembled a nice package, with thorough notes and some fascinating archival material. David Schecter says that if these titles do well, there are other 50s Western scores he’d like to get around to. Let’s help make sure he can.
My wife’s been helping out with some of my research — and came across this. It was too good to keep to myself. From the March 3, 1952 issue of Time.
The Wages Of Virtue.
Over the dusty cow town, silence hangs heavy as doom. The womenfolk, both spangled and respectable, huddle helplessly on stairways and behind shuttered windows. Tense and motionless at the long bar stands a frieze of deputies and desperadoes. Even the bearded comic for once is solemn and wary. For this is the moment when virtue — lean, clean, manly, and quick on the draw — must face evil in single combat, to triumph or bite the dust.
In the 1,001 variations of this scene that flash yearly across the nation’s television and movie screens, the triumph of virtue is all but inevitable — particularly when virtue is embodied in the lank form of Cinemactor John Wayne. In 24 years of moviemaking, during which he has played some 150 imperceptible variations of the same role, Actor Wayne, a limber-lumbering 6 ft. 4 in. man with a leathery skin and eyes like a sad and friendly hound, has become almost a trademark of manly incorruptibility.
In film after film, Wayne has larned the bad ‘uns that villainy don’t pay. In Stagecoach, possibly the best western picture ever made, he laid low two badmen with his trusty Winchester, reloading for the second kill as he dived to the ground to dodge the bullets of the first. As a white-clad lieutenant in a picture called Seven Sinners, he managed, by sheer force of innocence and a trusting heart, to turn a bedizened sinner (Marlene Dietrich) into a good woman and to preserve the honor of the U.S. Navy as well. Only very rarely is Wayne shown to be mortal—or at any rate expendable—as in the bloody Sands of Iwo Jima (1950). But even on Iwo, his sterling example (with an assist from the U.S. Marine Corps) assured a victory for the right side.
To millions of moviegoers and televiewers, in whose private lives good & evil often wage dreary, inconclusive little wars, John Wayne’s constant re-enactment of the triumph of virtue is as reassuring as George Washington’s face on a Series E bond. And virtue, in Wayne’s case, brings just as solid returns. This year, for the second year in a row, the Motion Picture Herald poll of U.S. theater owners and exhibitors showed John Wayne the country’s top box-office draw. When a breathless pressagent first called to tell him the great news, Wayne’s modest response was characteristic. “Why?” he drawled.
Why, Indeed? It was a good question. Why does the U.S. public like him better than Betty Grable, Bing Crosby or Martin & Lewis? His legs are not as pretty as Betty’s; his voice is not as sweet as Bing’s; he is nowhere near as funny as Martin & Lewis. And he is not the best of Hollywood’s actors. In fact, it is an open question whether he can act at all. “How often do I gotta tell you (thus Wayne to a persistent interviewer) that I don’t act at all—I re-act.” By this, Wayne means that on the set he responds to a cue precisely as he would in his own backyard, regardless of what the script and the director may say. John Wayne, at 44, is 1) a businessman who firmly believes in the profitable product he sells, and 2) a craftsman who has learned his trade.
In the best American tradition, John Wayne started his trade at the bottom—as a property boy on the old Fox lot on Hollywood’s Western Avenue. He was then a lanky young football player at the University of Southern California, equipped with an amiable grin, formless energy, and a vague ambition to become a lawyer. Like all genuine Hollywood actors, he was born (in Winterset, Iowa) with an alias: Marion Mitchell Morrison. When he was five, his parents moved to California and settled in Glendale, where his father ran a drugstore.
Marion was a healthy, husky kid, a dutiful son and a student who liked sports better than study. In high school he was unwillingly drafted into a student play, to give a rawboned caricature of a British peer. The experience rid him of the hated name Marion by capping him with the slightly suspect nickname “Duke.” It did not attract him in any way to the acting profession. After graduating from high school, he joined several other U.S.C. footballers who were working as part-time stagehands at the Fox Studio. And the more young Morrison saw of the studios, the more fascinated he became with their product. “All of a sudden,” he says, “I realized that this business is a damn fine business, and I got proud of it.”
High, Low, Jack.
Nobody on the Fox lot in those days cared much whether strapping young Duke Morrison was proud of his trade or not, but they found him a likable, good-natured companion in horseplay. A favorite sport was to get the big ex-tackle down on all fours in signals position and try to push him over. One day the great director, John Ford, joined the game. Duke took his stance. With a deft kick Ford knocked his hands from under him, and the property man’s face hit the floor with a smack. It was very funny. Everybody laughed. Duke got up, his face expressionless. “Let’s try that once again,” he said. Ford nodded. This time Duke charged forward, sent the director flying across the floor on his rear end.
It was very funny, but nobody laughed. Then Director Ford, still sitting down, gave the cue: he threw back his head and rocked with laughter. From that moment, Duke began to revere John Ford. Not to be outdone, Ford gave the youngster his fatherly affection. “I could see,” Ford says now, “that here was a boy who was working for something—not like most of the other guys, just hanging around to pick up a few fast bucks. Duke was really ambitious and willing to work. Inside of a month or six weeks we were fast friends, and I used to advise him and throw him a bit part now and then.”
The tie that really bound the friendship was Ford’s discovery that Duke played a sharp hand at Ford’s favorite game, Pitch. “It’s an old New England game—High, Low, Jack and the Game,” explains Ford. On Ford sets, whenever Duke wasn’t studying the director’s professional tricks or shifting props, the two could be found behind some inconspicuous piece of scenery, “claiming low” on one another.
Six-Foot-Three or Over.
It was tough, one-eyed Director Raoul Walsh who gave Duke his first real part. Walsh was casting a western called The Big Trail, and he couldn’t find the lead he wanted. “They’d been sending a raft of New York stage actors out to the Coast because sound had just come in,” he explains, “but none of them was right. Then I took one look at this guy walking across the set with a broom, and I got him on a horse right away.” Fortunately, Duke had learned to ride when he was a kid. Walsh was ecstatic. “Dammit,” he says in the pure argot of the Hollywood artist, “the son of a bitch looked like a man. To be a cowboy star, you gotta be 6 ft. 3 or over; you gotta have no hips and a face that looks right under a sombrero.” The new actor, rechristened John Wayne by Walsh, put aside his broom and the $35 weekly that went with it.
The Big Trail, expensively filmed as an experiment on 44-mm. “grandeur” film (wider than ordinary film), was a monumental flop. Caught between a national depression and still unpaid bills for expensive new sound equipment, few theater managers in the early ’30s were inclined to buy still more new equipment to show the wide film. Nonetheless, John Wayne was launched as an actor. His starting pay was $75 a week.
For close to a decade after that, Wayne appeared in one quickie western after another. He was usually on horseback—and most of the horses were white and named Duke. “Everything bad that can happen to you in pictures happens in those,” says Wayne. Sometimes he was working in as many as seven pictures at once. Everybody pitched in to do whatever chore needed doing: hustling props, handling stock, playing one part with face to the camera and another with back turned. Wayne loved these rough & tumble makeshifts. His contentment was not even spoiled by a dismal period when he became “Singing Sandy,” the movies’ first crooning cowboy (another voice was dubbed in on the sound track to replace Wayne’s toneless groans). “They don’t have the best actors in the world in horse operas,” says Wayne, “but they’re mostly damn fine men, rough and tough, and they teach you a lot.”
Most of Duke’s closest friends today—e.g., Ward Bond (6 ft. 3 in.) and Grant Withers (6 ft. 4 in.)—are the big, rough pals of this period (John Ford is a comparative midget—6 ft. 1 in.). Yakima Canutt, a top rodeo hand turned movie stuntman, served Wayne as a model for his rolling walk and drawling cowboy accent. Yak also taught Duke such useful tricks as the right, relaxed way to fall off a horse in the midst of a stampede.
In 1939, when Producer Walter Wanger happened on the set of Stagecoach and saw his new star climbing to the top of a careening coach to fire at pursuing Indians, he screamed: “Get that guy off there before he kills himself!” “Hell,” grins Wayne, “he didn’t know I’d been doin’ stunts like that for years, just to eat.”
By the time Director Ford finally got around to giving his young friend a really good role, the Ringo Kid in Stagecoach, Wayne had married a college sweetheart, Josephine Saenz, daughter of a retired Los Angeles doctor, and was living with his growing family in a duplex apartment. His salary was now up to $6,000 a picture, but “we were always just one jump ahead of the bills,” he says.
Without defying the accepted formula in any way, Ford’s Stagecoach raised horse opera to a higher level and became both a critical and box-office success. The part of the sleepy-eyed, lightning-fast, misunderstood outlaw Kid fitted Wayne’s pattern to a T. Soon every studio in Hollywood was asking for him. Republic, the studio which then had him under contract, considered his popularity a passing fad, and went right on casting him in low-budget westerns. But he was lent to other studios for bigger jobs, and he signed future commitments on his own, right & left. The Waynes were soon able to move out of their flat and buy a substantial $15,000 house on sturdily respectable Highland Avenue. Eventually, Republic caught on to the value of its property, and began putting time and money into Wayne pictures. The results were the biggest box-office smashes (Wake of the Red Witch, Sands of Iwo Jlma) in the studio’s history.
A year and a half ago, when the movie industry was at a low point, no fewer than nine Los Angeles first-run theaters were showing Wayne pictures. Those that couldn’t get new ones were scrabbling for the old. TV producers across the land were finding Wayne’s ancient quickies a more than adequate challenge to Hopalong Cassidy. As one famed producer sat listening in growing irritation to the alibis and explanations of his colleagues, he finally burst out: “What they’re all trying to say is that there’s nothing wrong with this damned industry that a dozen John Waynes couldn’t cure.”
Call It Corn.
Many a Hollywood actor who hits the jackpot is content to make hay while the sun shines, buy up a few annuities and wait uncertainly for the certain end. But Wayne, who is well aware that he is no actor, takes a somewhat longer view. “All I do is sell sincerity, and I’ve been selling the hell out of that ever since I started. But I’m an investment, and I gotta protect that investment.”
He probably exercises a tighter control over the films he appears in than any other top star in Hollywood. He insists on simple stories, sympathetic parts that fit his personality, and dialogue that he can speak convincingly. Most Wayne pictures are heavily larded with his own pet phrases (“Let’s get charging! Saddle up!”). “If someone starts acting phony at a party,” says Wayne, “you go out and get a drink and the hell with him. But if I start acting phony on the screen, you gotta sit there. Pretty soon you’re just looking at me instead of feeling with me. When I do a scene, I want to react as John Wayne.”
The late great Stanislavsky, who taught his pupils to “react” as everything from mad monks to coffee percolators, might have shuddered at such a theory of acting, but for Wayne, it works. “Sometimes they call it corn,” he admits with a grin, “but I’ve always felt that if a scene is handled with simplicity—and I don’t mean simple —it’ll be good.”
Success and the complications that go with it have robbed Wayne’s own life of much of the simplicity he finds good. Before Stagecoach, he was a “serenely happy” husband, says Josephine Wayne. Five years later, after the birth of their fourth child, Josephine and Duke were divorced. Busy with his commitments at one studio after another, and conscientiously conferring over every step of every production, he found less & less time for the hearty outdoor pastimes—hunting, fishing, deep-water sailing—he likes best, and the long evenings of poker, bridge and horseplay he shared with his strapping friends Bond, Withers and John Ford.
Idylls & Ulcers.
In 1946 Wayne married again, this time a velvet-eyed Mexican movie actress named Esperanza Baur, whom he calls Chata (Pugnose). Tall, graceful Chata is almost a female counterpart of Duke’s men friends. She loves to ride and shoot, and she plays a skillful hand of gin rummy. But Wayne has found little time to enjoy these pastimes with her. “My husband,” Chata explained recently, “is one of the few persons who is always interested in his business. He talks of it constantly. When he reads, it’s scripts. Our dinner guests always talk business, and he spends all his time working, discussing work or planning work.”
Soon after their marriage, Wayne became a producer at Republic (two Wayne productions: The Angel and the Badman, The Bullfighter and the Lady), and the work and the talk increased proportionately. Pacing the floor of his executive’s office, amid the constant clangor of telephone bells and interoffice squawkers, his quick temper frequently boils over. After one of these outbursts, he broods for a while, then seeks out his victim in contrition. “I’m always apologizing to somebody,” he says. He has acquired that final badge of executive success, a gastric ulcer. In 1950, after finishing Jet Pilot (still unreleased) for RKO, Duke decided to take Chata and himself on his first vacation in more than ten years. A trip through Central America in a reconditioned Navy PBY provided by Howard Hughes, the vacation turned out to be just a road-company version of life in Hollywood. A never-ending stream of autograph hunters and command appearances faced the famed movie star at every stop. The air waves hummed with unfinished business. John Ford, impatient to get going on Duke’s new film in Ireland, peppered the wanderers with importunate messages. Tempers were constantly frayed, and the idyll ended with Duke having to fly off to Ireland to get back to work again. Chata regretfully packed her slacks and went back to Hollywood to watch and wait.
A Little Dumb.
Both Wayne and Ford hope and believe that their newest collaboration, soon to be released as The Quiet Man, will be their best yet. If so, it can only add to the complexities that already beset Wayne’s crowded life. An unassuming, worrying man who, in the words of one of his best friends, still thinks of himself as “a stagehand who got lucky,” Duke is in many respects like a high-school football captain drafted willy-nilly as president of the student council and editor of the school paper. John Ford still treats him as a clumsy sophomore and bawls him out unmercifully when they work together. Wayne takes it like a scolded schoolboy and murmurs, “Sorry, Coach,” with abject hero-worship. But in other quarters Duke himself is the worshiped hero. Sometimes he finds the situation confusing.
When Hollywood began to worry about the Communists and fellow travelers in its midst, John Wayne was drafted to head an organization known as the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals. “Hell,” says one friend, “Duke didn’t know anything about the menace of Communism. All he knew was that some of his friends were against them.”
To please his friends, Duke did his best to face the problem as, say, the Ringo Kid might face it. The effort was not altogether successful. When Actor Larry Parks confessed to having once been a party member, newsmen raced to John Wayne for a statement. Caught without a script, Duke fingered his chin, said it was too bad that Larry had been a Communist, but damn courageous of him to admit it. He hoped, he added, that the confession wouldn’t hurt Larry’s career. At a mass meeting soon afterward, M.P.A. Vice President Hedda Hopper put the record straight. John Wayne to the contrary notwithstanding, she told the meeting and its abashed president, Larry Parks would most certainly not be forgiven. “Well, you certainly gave it to me,” Duke told her with a grin. “You certainly deserved it,” said Hedda. Later she confided to a friend: “Duke is a little dumb about these things.”
John Wayne’s dogged loyalty has always been both a trial and a solace to his friends, depending on the direction it takes. Grant Withers, a self-admitted has-been who was a star earning $2,250 a week when Duke was only a prop man, admits that Wayne has kept him in the business for years by getting him parts. “One of the best things you can say about Duke,” says Withers, “is that he was a swell guy when he was making 50 bucks a week and he’s an even better guy now that he’s making half a million a year.”
That estimate of Duke’s earnings is probably conservative. Outside of his film interests, his holdings now include sizable chunks of California real estate, several oil wells, a share of Cartoonist Al Capp’s comic-book publishing company, a piece of a Broadway hit show. With unfulfilled contracts still calling for pictures at Warners, RKO and Republic, and an unwritten agreement with Ford to make any picture Ford wants, Wayne last week was busy negotiating the last details of his own producing company.
Last month Chata, fed up with the inroads Duke’s work has made on their private life, left him. Last week they were together again and Duke, holding her hand, grinned boyishly at this latest proof that in a well-ordered world, everything turns out right in the end. In any event, to millions of satisfied moviegoers, Duke’s movies will go on saying so.
Copyright © Time Inc., 1952.
Here’s John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in Rio Grande (1950). This excellent film, the third part of John Ford’s cavalry trilogy, is known as the movie that let John Ford make his Irish picture, The Quiet Man (1952) — which will no doubt be inserted into many DVD and Blu-ray players today.
Rio Grande, of course, is plenty great in and of itself.
Volume 5 of Warner Archive’s Monogram Cowboy Collection offers up a slew of Johnny Mack Brown and Raymond Hatton pictures. Canyon Ambush (1952), directed by Lewis Collins and co-starring Phyllis Coates, was the last of Johnny Mack Brown’s films for Monogram. (No Hatton this time).
The three-disc set also includes Brown and Hatton in The Texas Kid (1943), Partners Of The Trail (1944), Law Men (1944), Ghost Guns (1944), Gun Smoke (1945), Frontier Feud (1945), Border Bandits (1946) and Raiders Of The South (1947).