I'm an incurable romantic so I do love westerns
Essential film noir by the late Otto Preminger heavily influenced by psychoanalysis that portrays a neurotic and relentless femme fatale played by Jean Simmons, doing her best as a sweet Hepburn-like girl consumed by a Oedipus complex the size of a house, and Robert Mitchum with his staid and almost bored acting style that works particularly well here as he's caught in a spider's web. It could do a nice double-feature with John M. Stahl's "Leave Her to Heaven" and it's a symbolic film to understand the influence of psychoanalysis in Hollywood of those years.
In the last 5 minutes I've had a revelation that Mike Milo was the man with no name, the pale rider, Josey Wales, the High Plains drifter at 91 years old. And in theory he is, because Clint is not just 'Clint', but he's one of those iconic actors who are the sum of every character he has played.
And that's a film about Eastwood, not about Mike Milo and the boy.
I'm left only with the impression that this…
It's like listening to a guitar solo in the middle of the night from a scratchy vinyl. The race begins when everything around stops and ends (if it ends) when everything else is about to begin. It'll be for another time, for another story. It escapes the laws of narration and places itself in a crepuscolar zone of infinity and indeterminacy typical of trascendental experiences, such as the two existentialist westerns that Monte Hellman had already done at that time,…