With the current re-release of A
Fistful of Dollars being shown in selected countries around the world, I
thought I’d set up this page to celebrate the event. The film is currently
being shown at London’s NFT and ties in with a concurrent Sergio Leone season
of films. The re-release is also accompanied by a new promotional campaign
featuring a new 1-sheet and Quad poster. There is
also a super new trailer to mark this release which reflects perfectly the
quality and care that has gone into the restoration.
Below is a nice review by The
Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw – who has given the film a 5/5 rating.
A Fistful of Dollars review – punk-rock western as fabulous as ever
The film that made Clint Eastwood a star and legend has a cult, comic-book intensity
A Fistful of Dollars review – punk-rock western as fabulous as ever
The film that made Clint Eastwood a star and legend has a cult, comic-book intensity
Two fistfuls in fact: two $500 payments – a gigantic amount – which
the Man with No Name accepts casually from either side of a bloody feud in the sun-baked
Mexican town of San Miguel. He has blown in like a strange force of nature,
with a coolly amoral plan to use their mutual hate to his own gun slinging
advantage. Striding towards a gunfight, he tells the coffin-maker in advance
how many to knock up.
This is the 1964 movie, now on re release, which created the
revolutionary new genre of the Spaghetti Western, an Italian co production shot
in Spain and directed with inspirational pulp passion by Sergio Leone –drawing
on Kurosawa. And it made a star and a legend of Clint Eastwood. He had been the
impetuous young Rowdy Yates on TV’s Rawhide, an open-faced boy with a pleasant
singing voice. In this movie, he suddenly, terrifyingly grew up: hat, poncho,
grizzly growth of beard, short cigar, and his eyes perpetually screwed up, as
if staring into the sun or suppressing a grimace of incredulous disgust.
The Man with No Name and the brutal Dollars movies were a colossal rebuke to the blander Rawhide-style westerns that had come to dominate television.
The Man with No Name and the brutal Dollars movies were a colossal rebuke to the blander Rawhide-style westerns that had come to dominate television.
The other figure that became a legend here was composer Ennio
Morricone, for his extraordinary musical score – sometimes with plaintive and
slightly nasal trumpets that declaimed his robust Aranjuez-type pastiche, and
sometimes the main theme with its whip-poor-will whistling cries, whip-cracks,
bells and eerie percussive shouts. The blaringly dubbed dialogue from bit-part
players adds to the dreamlike quality of the film.
The Man With No Name (he acquires the name “Joe” from the locals,
apparently an all-purpose term for gringos) arrives and instantly sizes up the
way the local Rojo brothers are psychotically bullying a small child, who has
been taken away from his mother, Marisol (Marianne Koch), because one of the
brothers has conceived a fanatically possessive attachment to this woman. This
is the hateful bandit Ramón (Gian Maria Volontè), who has a sensual face that
often looms sweaty in Leone’s many melodramatic close-ups – like a cross
between Omar Sharif and Laurence Olivier.
His is the crew which has audaciously kidnapped and killed members of
the US army and, disguised in their uniforms, tricked the Mexican army into
handing over a huge amount in gold in return for a promised consignment of
rifles. The deal ends in slaughter. Ranged against the Rojo gang are the
Baxters – Anglos who are every bit as violent, and also pompous and
pusillanimous. Eastwood’s nameless avenger somehow manages to use one against
the other, but shows a human side, of a sort, in his laconic friendship with
the bar owner Silvanito (José Calvo) and his gallant rescue of Marisol.
Finally, he will materialise as if from a dust storm with what looks
like a supernatural invulnerability to bullets, though keen to dispute Ramón’s
belief that a Winchester repeating rifle will always be better than a .45 pistol.
And he achieves that all-important ronin asceticism, a need only to keep moving
on, although that thousand dollars has in fact made him very rich. A Fistful of
Dollars has a cult, comic-book intensity. It is the punk rock of westerns.
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