By Eric M. Blake @hardboiledfilms
“I’ve been offered a lot in my line of work. But never everything.”
In his masterwork, Primetime Propaganda, Ben Shapiro stated, “You can’t beat Westerns for conservatism.” And so, I give you my favorite Western of all time, the original The Magnificent Seven.
(Rio Bravo’s a close second if you were wondering).
One quick note: People often complain about Hollywood’s alleged current obsession with remakes—including the recent remake of this film (more on that later). But this 1960s classic was itself a remake of Akira Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai. That’s a classic, too, and like any good remake, The Magnificent Seven was different enough that film lovers can enjoy them both without a problem.
WHY IT’S A CONSERVATIVE FILM:
I admit, I didn’t really think I was going to include this film in the series any more than any other random pick from my old Western collection. But then, I watched The Magnificent Seven again with my “political radar” switched on, if you will, and found that it had some unique value to offer.
The Value Of Guns:
You’d think a “pro-gun” theme would be kinda necessary to the Western genre. After all, what’s a Western without guns?
But not so fast. As I’ve noted before, there’s an all-too-common trope in Westerns of the sheriff or marshal banning guns in town. The truly conservative films (like Rio Bravo) tend to avoid that or at least deconstruct it.
In The Magnificent Seven, a force of banditos is lording it over a Mexican village. They’re armed and not above gunning people down. The Mexican government, for its part, has proven completely ineffective at protecting the town for the simple reason that the bandits just wait until the authorities are gone and then come back.
So what do the villagers do?
After some argument over their options, the trio of village leaders go to the unnamed town elder—a wise shaman type and the most blatant indication that this used to be a samurai film. He even kinda looks Oriental and seemingly lives up a mountain.
His solution?
“Fight. You must fight. Fight!”
“With machetes and bare hands against guns?”
“Buy guns.”
“…Even if we had the guns—we know how to plant and grow. We don’t know how to kill.”
“Then learn. Or die.”
The only thing that can stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. A trained good guy with a gun, to be clear, but you can be sure that includes civilians. And that’s part of the purpose of the Seven, not just to serve as defenders but to train the villagers to defend themselves, using the guns they pick up from dead bad guys.
As for the Seven, the first two—Chris and Vin—are introduced using guns to defeat a group of racists. This is particularly appropriate, considering why the NRA was founded in the first place.
Calvera’s Sense Of Entitlement:
One of the key elements of the villain, Calvera’s, character is his constant justification of his own actions and those of his men who rob villages, leaving the citizens with only the bare minimum needed to survive. He and his men have to eat, don’t you see—they’re on the run, there’s all this scarcity, and besides, they’re desperate!
In other words, from each according to his ability, to each according to his need. And like all who proclaim that “ideal,” as far as Calvera’s concerned, it’s his crew that has the greatest “need” and everyone else who has the “ability.” Like all such con artists, he lectures the villagers on how he loves them and thinks of them as “good friends.”
It takes the Seven to call him out on it—surrounding the gang as they do so:
“Ride on? I’m going in the hills for the winter. Where am I going to get the food for my men?”
“Buy it or grow it!” “Or maybe even work for it!”
“Somehow, I don’t think you’ve solved my problem!”
“Solving your problems isn’t our line.”
Not that Calvera listens.
The Seven (Hired) Hawks:
Oftentimes, certain stances don’t become political and don’t “settle” into the left or right column until after a piece of art is published, thereby making it political in hindsight. Sometimes, this results in films that were once considered “liberal” ending up looking quite conservative.
In this case, it wasn’t until the latter days of the Vietnam War that “hawks” and “doves” became divided along ideological lines—right and left, respectively—thanks in large part to the radicals of the New Left seizing partial control of the Democrat Party in 1972, which has increased their influence to this very day. Nowadays, in the wake of the Ron Paul “Revolution,” the ambiguity has started to emerge again. Nevertheless, the rhetoric of the Left remains “dove-ish” compared to the Right—and the Right’s rhetoric “hawkish” compared to the Left.
Thanks to the Tea Party, a basic consensus has emerged on the Right for limited interventionism, that is: Go in, kill the bad guys, get out. Staying to rebuild probably isn’t worth it.
Well, what do we have here but American gunfighters crossing the border into Mexico to intervene in an “internal affair”—(albeit intervention the villagers specifically requested)? In fact, in retrospect, we can identify the methodology of the Kennedy and Reagan Doctrines at work here as much of the Seven’s work, between the two big gunfights, involves training the villagers in how to defend themselves. However, there’s also a realistic “cost” here—as Chris makes clear to the trio:
“Do you understand what it means when you start something like this? …Once you begin, you’ve got to be prepared for killing—and more killing. And then still more killing, until the reason for it is gone.”
Chris and company didn’t put their lives on the line for the village to change its collective mind in the middle of things. And so, when some of the leaders consider exactly that, Chris makes clear he’ll shoot the first man who talks about giving up.
Not Exactly Altruism:
One of the main critiques from the Libertarian and Nationalist wings of the Right is, understandably, that if we’re going to get involved in a foreign country, the conflict has to involve American interests—we shouldn’t sacrifice our boys’ lives just to be a nice, selfless country.
Here, there is a vested interest for the Seven—firstly, their pay (minimal as it is), but also their sense of purpose as America is “outgrowing” them. Regardless, when the three villagers hire Chris to find men, we hear the following:
“Will you go? It will be a blessing, if you came.”
“…Sorry, I’m not in the blessing business.”
Of course, the villagers do have money, and it’ll be enough for seven drifting gunfighters. Ultimately, they enter into a contract, as Chris reminds Vin and the others when they have a serious talk about whether they should call it quits:
“You forget one thing. We took a contract.”
“It’s not the kind any court would enforce.”
“That’s just the kind you got to keep.”
Not “We gave our word.” “We took a contract.” Free-market capitalism motivates virtue—the Invisible Hand creates a financial incentive for honor and keeping your word, even if the product is armed security. In fact, especially when it’s that.
Mexican Portrayal:
Interestingly enough, the Mexican government demanded some revisions to the storyline—forcing the writers to make it more P.C.! Ironically, however, those revisions actually make the film more conservative. In the original script, the trio from the village are explicitly sent to hire men to protect them. But, in the final version, they’re sent to buy guns. It’s Chris who points out to them that, nowadays, hiring gunfighters is actually cheaper.
The Mexican government’s concern was that their people would come across as weak and helpless without the Americans’ intervention. But, in the end, the villagers are all portrayed as realistic people—some giving in to cowardice, others sticking it out to the end, but all, ultimately, proving their bravery—albeit with some nudges and training from the Seven.
One and a half of whom turn out to be Mexican.
For Bonus Points:
It’s worth noting that, in the aforementioned sequence in which the movie takes a “shot” (ha ha ha) at racism, the defenders of decency are the two businessmen and the gunfighters, verbally supported by rugged cowboys who gladly offer to pay for damages. And as the undertaker notes, racism entered the town—corrupting it—when it “got civilized.”
In other words, rugged individualism and racism are incompatible. Effectively, it’s the “civilizing” influence of government—lumping people into interest groups—that allows this menace to really take hold if we’re not careful. And if racism does take root, it’s business (the profit motive, which knows no color) and the right to self-defense that can fight it and beat it.
Finally, Chico’s speech to the village after the Seven first ride in is a nice jolt to the village—the kind of tough love we’d dream of having American leaders display to the U.N. and anyone else who presumes to lecture us on “imperialism,” only to turn to us whenever there’s an international problem:
“Thank you, amigos, for coming out to greet us. Thank you for letting us see your beautiful faces. Thank you, thank you, you—CHICKENS! You come running out like chickens. We ride for days to get to this nothing in the middle of nowhere. We’re ready to risk our lives to help you—and you? You hide from us. Hide! From us! Well…. But it’s a different story when you’re in danger, huh? You might lose your precious crops. Then you flock to us. Huh? Well, we’re here—my compadres and I. And here we stay. And you…? You prove to us that you’re worth fighting for.”
Like Ben said, “You can’t beat Westerns for conservatism.”
WHY IT’S A GREAT FILM:
Alright, first things first. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about this movie?
Elmer Bernstein’s Second Symphony:
It’s the quintessential “Classical Western” (as opposed to “Spaghetti Western”) score. Breathtakingly beautiful, romantic, sweeping, and epic—that legendary theme alone is something you can’t help humming (at least in your head) as you leave the theater.
There’s the menacing, rolling, and somewhat regal villain theme, which Eli Wallach noted he wished he’d have been able to hear before filming so he would’ve known to ride his horse more magnificently.
There’s my favorite piece, “After The Brawl.” celebrating the solidification of Chris and Vin as heroic and just plain cool after scaring off a band of racists.
There’s “Journey,” playing amid the Six—soon to be Seven, as Chico proves his worth amid the trek—traveling to, across, and beyond the Rio Grande. One can’t help wondering if Howard Shore was inspired by this sequence when writing up “The Ring Goes South” for the first Lord Of The Rings.
There are the Mexican-style pieces—playful, joyous (“Training” and “Fiesta and Celebration”), and on one occasion, snarky amid Chico’s cute attempt at a bullfight (“Toreador”).
All were channeled from the spirit of that grand master of musical Americana, Aaron Copeland—the effective father of the Western “sound,” with his Appalachian Spring, Billy The Kid, El Salon Mexico, and, of course, Rodeo. You know the last one as the source of the “Beef: It’s What’s For Dinner” music, aka “Hoedown.”
Unsurprisingly, Copland was Bernstein’s mentor.
(If you’re wondering, Bernstein’s “First Symphony” was the score for The Ten Commandments. Before that, he was known for his more “Jazzy” scores for noirs and other “urban” films, like Sweet Smell of Success and Walk On The Wild Side).
The Script:
A bunch of screenwriters working on a single film tends to be a red flag. But The Magnificent Seven is the exception.
Case in point—the classic exchange between two businessmen and an undertaker over whether a dead fellow’s going to be buried:
Could it get any wittier than that?
Well, how about Vin’s little parables, that kinda, sorta make a bit of sense:
“Reminds me of that fella back home, jumped off a ten-story building. …As he was falling, people on each floor kept hearing him say, ‘So far so good!’ So far, so good.”
And when asked what the Seven were thinking, taking this job at all:
“Like a fella I once knew, in El Paso. One day he just took off all his clothes, and jumped into a mess of cactus; I asked him the same question: ‘Why? …He said ‘It seemed to be a good idea at the time.'”
Plus, the strong and silent Britt, when he does speak, sure makes it worth it, as when Chico expresses admiration for how Britt shot a man on horseback:
“That was the greatest shot I’ve ever seen!”
“The worst. I was aiming at the horse!”
Even the hombres from the village have some gems, such as when one thinks a guy looks tough because of the scars on his face, to which another counters, “The man for us is the one who gave him that face.” A moment later, they tease a reluctant Vin with his “good steady work” alternative as a grocery clerk.
Still, the script also knows the value of non-verbal moments, including classic touches like Chris and Vin finger-counting or Brit lowering his brim, pointedly giving a loudmouth the brush-off.
I’d stack this screenplay up against the best work of Aaron Sorkin and Joss Whedon, hands down.
The Seven:
Aside from the music, perhaps the best thing about this film is how each and every member of the Seven is a distinct, believable character, each with his own reason to join up and his own character arc.
Yul Brynner as Chris:
Brynner—aka Rameses of The Ten Commandments and the King in The King And I—brings his noble charisma as the leader of the gang. He’s the moral force of the group, the one who admits from the beginning that he’s getting involved simply because it’s the right thing to do. And yet he fears that it’s all for nothing and wonders if he can really trust the villagers to follow through to the end. He is responsible for keeping all the internal and external tensions under control as the Seven have to come to terms with the fact that the villagers don’t entirely trust them.
Steve McQueen as Vin:
The star of Bullitt and The Great Escape plays Vin, gunfighter and gambler, playful yet pointed in his observations as Chris’s effective second-in-command. He’s taking the job out of pride—he’ll be darned if he’ll settle for a “humiliating” job as a grocery clerk. He’s the funnyman of the group, but it masks a sense of loneliness, a coldness that overshadows his life. As he admits to one of the village leaders, “I, uh…I envy you.”
Brad Dexter as Harry Luck:
Dexter is the least recognizable “name” of the seven actors, more known for his face in many a Western than anything else. Regardless, his character, Harry Luck, is a hustler who’s only in it for the money, saying he knows there’s gotta be more to the pay than what Chris says (despite Chris’s protestations). And he keeps looking for proof of that. He’s trying his hardest to deny he has a heart; as such, he’s the one who keeps suggesting the option of giving up, when the tensions in the village reach their boiling points. Still, perhaps he doth protest too much:
“I’ll be damned….”
“Maybe you won’t be.”
Charles Bronson as Bernardo O’Reilly:
The legendary action star is Bernardo O’Reilly, veteran master of winning county wars with his master skill. He costs a lot—or at least he used to. Half-Irish, half-Mexican, he’s looking for somewhere to belong—and it’s certainly not chopping wood for food. Meanwhile, he turns out to have a soft spot in his heart for children and famously lectures three boys who idolize him:
“You think I am brave because I carry a gun? Well, your fathers are much braver, because they carry responsibility! For you, your brothers, your sisters, and your mothers! And this responsibility is like a big rock that weighs a ton. It bends, and it twists them, until finally it buries them under the ground. And there’s nobody says they have to do this—they do it because they love you, and because they want to. I have never had this kind of courage. Running a farm—working like a mule every day, with no guarantee will ever come of it—this is bravery! That’s why I never even started anything like that. That’s why I never will.”
Like it or not, these are words to remember whether you’re on the Left or the Right.
James Coburn as Britt:
The silent, laconic, cool-headed master of all handheld weapons, be they knives or guns. Britt doesn’t care about money—his life’s motivation is to test himself and his abilities. He’s the consummate professional-plus-artist. His art is his aim and his speed. Because of his silence and cool head, we don’t know much about what he’s going through in this film—just that he considers his devotion to his skill a matter of honor. And as such, he doesn’t give up.
“Nobody throws me my own guns and says ‘run.’ Nobody.”
Robert Vaughn as Lee:
Vaughn would go on to play The Man From UNCLE, but here, he’s Lee, the fancily-dressed “name brand” gunfighter—and his name has come back to haunt him. He’s gunned down the last of his enemies, but he needs to hide until the authorities stop looking for him. Meanwhile, he’s riddled with PTSD, which only gets worse when he fears he’s lost the will to fight.
It’s unclear whether he actually was spooked out of joining in the first gunfight or whether he just didn’t have any enemies coming his way. Regardless, he thinks he chickened out, and that triggers his shell shock. He’s desperate to prove that he’s not a coward—that he still has courage. After all:
“Go ahead, Lee. You don’t owe anything to anybody.”
“…Except to myself.”
Horst Buchholz as Chico:
Before becoming a star in his native Germany, Buccholz played Chico, a youngster of Mexican descent who desires more than anything else to be a tough guy hero—a legend like the gunfighters. He’s “very young and very proud”—which initially causes Chris to reject him for the mission.
Well, technically, he doesn’t reject him, but his test of the kid’s speed hurts Chico’s pride. At any rate, Chico does impress him eventually, and ends up helping to cure some of the initial tensions with the village as well as conducting some good reconnaissance. In doing so, he wins the heart of a certain senorita named Petra and is torn up by the knowledge that a wandering gunfighter’s life has no place for love with a girl like her. Meanwhile, his bravado and desperation to be a gunfighter masks a past of his own.
The Villain—Eli Wallach’s Calvera:
Before he was Tuco in The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly, Wallach was the swaggering, boisterous, deadly, yet oddly charming archvillain Calvera (from the Spanish calavera, “skull”). Calvera is one of the undisputed improvements over the original Kurosawa film, as this villain has actual characterization rather than just being an ominous force.
And what a character! He throws his weight around, laughing it up, putting on a “chummy” act that the village leaders have no intention of playing along with, not that he seems to care. All this leads to a priceless moment in which one of his goons inadvertently undercuts Calvera’s “we’re-all-friends-here” act:
“Here—religion! You’d weep if you saw how true religion is now a thing of the past. Last month we were in San Juan. Rich town—sit down! Rich town, much blessed by God, big church. Not like here, little church, the priest comes twice a year. Big one! You’d think we’d find gold candlesticks—poor box filled to overflowing. You know what we found? Brass candlesticks. Almost nothing in the poor box.”
“But we took it anyway.”
“I know ‘we took it anyway’! I’m trying to show him how little religion some people now have.”
And, of course, he later gives one of the all-time classic villain lines of cinema:
“If God didn’t want them sheared, he would not have made them sheep.”
Like so many villains, in his desire to justify himself, Calvera honestly seems to believe that Chris and the Seven are just like him. To his dying breath, he can’t understand why “a man like you” would help those “sheep,” let alone come back for them.
The Cost Of A Gunfighter’s Life:
It’s perhaps the greatest scene in the film, as everyone rests in the calm before the storm. Chico gushes about the glories of being a legendary gunfighter. Chris mutters, “You think it’s worth it?” Chico is shocked at his elders’ lack of enthusiasm about their lives, leading Vin, Chris, and Lee to famously lay out just how complicated the life of a hired gun can actually be—the good, the bad, and the ugly—as if reciting stats from a ledger:
Of course, “No enemies, alive” assumes none of them are better than you with a gun. And even if you survive them all, still, at the point in American history the movie’s set in, even the good is only temporary.
The Death Of The West, In General:
We saw the roots of the West’s demise in Shane just before the final shootout, when Shane admits the days of the gunfighter are coming to an end. But it was The Magnificent Seven in the 1960s that caused that theme to suddenly surge in the genre. And for good reason.
Little by little, throughout the Sixties, it became increasingly apparent that the Western genre of film was just getting old. John Wayne found himself effectively playing father figures. Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda, Gary Cooper, and Randolph Scott were all aging out. New blood was coming in, of course, but a feeling of anxiety filled those working in the genre as they questioned whether the glory days were over.
Mid-decade, Sergio Leone reinvented the Western, creating a new spin that came to be known as the “Spaghetti Western” movement—a grittier, yet somewhat more “fun,” new playground of experimentation. Some American Westerns followed that trend (and not all of them starred Clint Eastwood).
But what about the “old” style—the sweeping, romantic, “Classical Westerns”? Well, a new central theme arose powered by self-awareness and a conscious nostalgia for the old days. This theme was simply the end of the West.
Suddenly, we saw our heroes reflecting on the old days and how the world was starting to pass them by for “modern” ideas. This is apparent in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, as John Wayne’s gunfighter, Tom, gives way to Jimmy Stewart’s lawyer, Ransom, ending with poor Tom a broken man. Similarly, in Big Jake, we see a visual contrast between John Wayne riding a horse and the rest of the rescue team driving a car—at least initially. And ultimately, in The Shootist (SPOILER ALERT), John Wayne dies as the symbolic blaze of glory of the Old West itself, in a town filled with trolley cars and horseless carriages.
The Death Of The West, The Magnificent Seven:
Each of the Seven join the cause for their own reasons. But, with the possible exception of Chico, those reasons all tie into the fact that the world is moving on. The implied timing of the film is the 1890s—the beginning of the end for the Old West. Towns are getting “civilized,” as Chris and Vin note as they ride up to Boot Hill; even the notorious “wild” towns of Tombstone and Dodge City are quiet. There’s no action, “People all settled-down-like.”
It’s a sad time for the gunfighters—men who’d found purpose honing their skills on a wild frontier that desperately needed such men. All the “bad guys” have been gunned down or rounded up. And the “good guys,” well, now they’ve got nothing to do.
Chris is “drifting south, more-or-less,” looking for anyone who needs help. Vin might have to settle for a job as “a crackerjack clerk.” O’Reilly’s out chopping wood. Britt’s basically doing anything he deems a good challenge. Harry’s just looking for a buck—or so he tells himself. And Lee finds himself humiliated by hotels that don’t want a known gunfighter drawing attention, where they would’ve been honored to have him around in the old days.
Basically, they all just want to feel useful again, rather like the samurai of Kurosawa’s film—all of whom were ronin, drifting around, facing the end of Feudal Japan.
Well, they all do regain their sense of purpose, even if most of them pay for it with their lives. Of the three that survive, Chico settles down. As for Chris and Vin, well, they’ll just have to go on looking once again for a place that needs them.
“The old man was right. Only the farmers won. We lost. We always lose.”
And they ride off, though curiously not into the sunset this time. Maybe, symbolically, there’s hope after all.
By The Way…
There were three sequels to this film—Return Of The Magnificent Seven, The Magnificent Seven Ride, and Guns Of The Magnificent Seven. Return has Yul Brynner back as Chris—with different actors playing Vin and Chico. The other two don’t even have Brynner, using a different actor to portray Chris each time—neither of whom even looks like him.
Speaking as a critic, Return is actually pretty good as it keeps the appeal of each member of the Seven having his own story. But Ride didn’t exactly hold my attention. Though I watched the whole way through, I only remember one nice line in the beginning when the employer notes to pseudo-Chris, “I hear seven is a lucky number for you.” I haven’t seen Guns yet.
Steve McQueen’s absence from Return probably had to do with an on-set rivalry between him and Brynner, due mainly to McQueen’s constant acting flourishes with the clear intent of drawing audience attention towards him. Brynner famously replied to the effect of “Steve, if you don’t stop that, I’ll take off my hat…and no one will look at you for the rest of the movie.”
Brynner actually does have a brief scene with his hat off when Chico rides over, having discovered Petra. It’s easy to miss, though, as he quickly replaces the headpiece.
The “bullfight” scene was actually improvised. A bull was put on set, and Horst Buchholz just ran with it.
There was also a spinoff T.V. series, though with completely original characters who tended to survive their assignments.
WHAT’S NOT ON THE LIST:
No, the diverse casting is not what disqualifies the 2016 remake from our list. As director Antoine Fuqua has noted, the real West was pretty diverse before “civilization” brought Jim Crow (as the original even hints at). Besides, anyone claiming Conservatism and racial diversity are somehow at odds doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
So what does disqualify it? Well, Calvera has been replaced with a stereotypical evil greedy businessman—a.k .a. “robber baron.” Yes, he’s technically a crony Capitalist, working with corrupt government officials (and the Pinkertons’ evil counterparts), but that’s pretty hard to make clear to the average audience, especially if you don’t present a good businessman—aka a “captain of industry”—as a counterpoint.
But, overall, I actually really like this remake. It’s well-cast, especially with Denzel Washington as the leader and Chris Pratt showing some uncharacteristic darkness underneath the fun. Most of the characters are re-named “spins” on the originals, although Vasquez the Mexican is a composite (O’Reilly plus Harry), and the “kid” is a stone-faced Comanche archer, not a desperate-to-prove-himself wannabe. The “new” character, played by Vincent D’Onofrio (playing very against type), is actually modeled after the Western roles of the famously high-pitched and heavyset Andy Devine.
It’s a good, enjoyable film worthy of the franchise (even dropping some nice quotes from the original), although I admit to being a little miffed at the browned-out color palate. For some reason, it seems to be an unspoken rule nowadays that non-Tarantino Westerns must look ugly. (And they wonder why the genre hasn’t really exploded back yet). Further, the late, great James Horner’s score—famously the last he ever wrote—is kind of unmemorable, a point which is sadly underlined when Bernstein’s classic theme kick-starts the ending credits.
Buy the original Magnificent Seven here. And stay Cultured, my friends.
Any recommendations for films to make the series? Read the rules here, and let us know!