A TOWN CALLED HELL (1971) ** Death and sadism on an old Mexican trail. You couldn't ask for much stranger casting: the early murder scenes between Robert Shaw and Martin Landau are that bizarre mix of repulsive and exhilarating that makes violent revolution so terrible and romantic. Telly Savales is surprisingly effective at being a mean and disgusting Mexican dude who really likes his jacket. Even more promising were the scenes between Shaw (who always says everything with the most profound sense of conviction) and Stella Stevens (probably the model for the inventors of prozac): unfortunately Shaw mainly seems disgusted with himself for even being in the scenes, and spit/mutters his lines in them like a shopkeeper closing up for a lunch that doesn't sound promising either. The harsh scenery and sentimentalities aren't the only invocations of Buñuel-Fernando Rey is even running around propounding mysteries. Robert Parrish presides over it all, somewhere between omnipresent and hiding but omnipotent, slavishly throwing down disjointed and asymmetrical cuts, lingering on faces in the manner of Sergio Leone, and refusing to divulge information. At one point he cuts, absolutely brilliantly, into what seems to be an entirely different film. This is no less welcome considering that the first film wasn't much fun anyway. I like movies that try to be different, and there's no question that this one tries very hard. Successfully, too, in some ways that don't matter all that much. There's no profound revelation, no epiphany even hinted at, and it's neither particularly entertaining nor fun. It is, however, different, and frequently well done, though not quite well or regularly enough to be as disturbing as it would like. Which is a relief.
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