FilmFlaneur
Powdersmoke Range is the sort of guilty pleasure that your cultural guardians will have warned you about. The enjoyment here is not in the hokey plot (well, OK it is a bit), or the cinematography, or the music. It lies almost entirely in watching grouchy old Harry Carey, Hoot Gibson and Bob Steele go through their paces, spouting arch dialogue and referring to a code of values which, if they ever existed, only did so in Westerns up until c 1940.The camp fascination of this vehicle is such that I've found myself watching it several times. The effect of such a slow moving, deliberate drama, one where the sort of psychological drama which become common in the genre in the 50's onwards is missing, is almost timeless. Carey's trick to beat Sunshine Saunders to the draw at the end is charming, almost old-worldy, and could easily stem straight from the dime novels in which Ned Buntline first immortalised Buffalo Bill back in the 1880's. However it does provide an intiguing element of suspense which helps the last half of the film to gain some momentum.Carey, at least to my eyes, is the prime draw (deliberate pun) and, to modern eyes, his combination of grandad and gunfighter takes some getting used to. But ultimately the faded humanity of the man, his solid gravitas, makes us care about him. Even in this forgotten B-Western he displays something of the star quality and on-screen presence that John Wayne celebrated in the closing seconds of The Searchers (silhouetted in the doorway he wraps he cradles his own arm with a characteristic Carey-esque gesture). Those unfamiliar with the older man should seek out his other co-starring vehicles, like the rewarding Shepherd of the Hills as well as The Angel and the Badman (both with Wayne).
