Ella Swenson: If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to ride along.
“Colonel” Dolarhyde: Sure, why not? We’ve got a kid and a dog, why not a woman?
That’s really all you need to know, but if you like your misogynist sausage fest with a big delicious helping of white supremacy, then this movie is for you!
(Spoilers after the cut.)
This movie has every cliche in the book.
- Strong silent hero who can walk miles in the hot desert sun with a bleeding gut wound? Check.
- Crusty old battle-scarred veteran turned rancher who’s really a good guy underneath? Check.
- Bully-boy son of said rancher, making townsfolk’s lives miserable when times are good, morphing into gibbering pathetic weenie when given richly deserved comeuppance? Check.
- Nonwhite whitey apologist, slightly less heroic than all the Anglos around him? Check.
- Pokerfaced face-painted Indian chief speaking unsubtitled Indian language, conveniently translated by whitey apologist? Check. (Because in movieland all nonwhite people speak the same language.)
- Horde of ki-yi-ing face-painted Native people waving spears and dancing around a bonfire, possessing herbal potion to restore hero’s lost memory? Check.
- Dead prostitute? Check.
- Monstrous mucosal roaring three-fingered alien(s) with anatomical compartment(s) containing duplicated body parts, who enjoy feeding on human flesh? Check.
- Lone non-extra female who’s not really female so it’s okay that she’s playing with the boys, but who still dies in an appropriately female self-sacrificing way by undertaking a suicide mission to destroy the alien ship? Ch-ch-ch-ch-CHECK.
I swear, 99% of the time I’m at the cinema I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into 1960. I don’t see why so many dudes have such a hard time coming up with anything original or creative. But then again, changing the formula might cut into the millions of dollars these piles of crap rake in from 14- to 20-year-old boys.