Review of “Dead for a Dollar”: Christoph Waltz and Rachel Brosnahan Star in a Lively Western by Walter Hill

The 80-year-old action veteran’s movie, which is playing against competition on the Lido, also stars Willem Dafoe, Warren Burke, Brandon Scott, and Benjamin Bratt.

 

The dedication “In Memory of Budd Boetticher” is bannered so brightly next to the title when the credits roll at the conclusion of Dead for a Dollar that it virtually functions as the movie’s subtitle.

 

In fact, it’s not fully clear if it serves as the official subtitle for the movie. The Cimarron Kid (1952), The Man From the Alamo (1953), and Comanche Station are just a few examples of the kind of morally clear classic westerns that Boetticher used to make, and this delightful new film from the renowned writer-producer-director Walter Hill is no exception (1960). The movie looks like it was created 60 or 70 years ago, even with the heavily edited appearance, which was likely shot on digital but altered in post so that all the blues get filtered away. The colour scheme consists entirely of ochre, blood-rust red, and high chaparral yellow. Do you recall the proverb that claims all cats are black at night? Well, all of the horses in Dead for a Dollar are bay or sorrel in colour.

 

Given the lifespan of directors, we hope that Hill has more movies left in him as 80 is the new 50 in this day and age. In any case, considering that Hill has frequently stated that all of his films are essentially westerns, this wouldn’t truly be the capstone to a wonderful, varied career. That is undoubtedly true of both “real” westerns with cowboys, ten-gallon hats, and the like (The Long Riders, Wild Bill, Geronimo: An American Legend, and the pilot for TV’s Deadwood) and those that are set in the 20th and 21st centuries in which they were produced (The Driver, The Warriors).

 

But despite the fact that Hill makes a few covert nods to canonical and cult faves and is obviously enjoying playing to the audience’s preconceptions of the genre, Dead for a Dollar isn’t just a pointless exercise in nostalgia. It is not also a postmodern revisionist deconstruction. It falls somewhere in the middle, with features that will unmistakably tell viewers that it was created in the 2020s, and a narrative architecture that is as classical in its vernacular as Doric columns on a bank. Take the movie’s somewhat strained attempt to show a wide spectrum of characters, Black, white, and Latino, with powerful women who can shoot as straight as any man, for instance.

 

In some instances, the careful redistribution of screentime wealth pays off. For instance, Diane Villegas’s character Esperanza, a hotel employee, is given the opportunity to deliver an unexpected coup de grace in an action that, in a more conventional movie, would have been the responsibility of a white, male hero. Bounty hunter Max Borlund (Christoph Waltz, quite charmingly likeable for a change), a fast draw and sharpest shooter, who — even though his employment is essentially mercenary — does have a code of honour of his devising and faith in, to quote Hill’s sharp phrase in his director’s statement, “the old hard religion of courage,” does have one of those too.

 

In order to find his missing wife Rachel (Rachel Brosnahan), who has allegedly been abducted by buffalo soldier Elijah Jones, cuckolded New Mexico landowner Martin Kidd (Hamish Linklater) hires Borlund (Brandon Scott). The latter two were last seen riding into Mexico, with Rachel maintaining her light skin beneath a little travel umbrella. The army officer who sets up the meeting between Borlund and Kidd offers Sergeant Poe (Warren Burke), another Black soldier who sees this opportunity as a chance for progress even if it means betraying former friend Jones, as backup for Borlund.

 

However, it turns out that Rachel has actually fled with her lover Elijah, eager to leave Kidd’s abusive and unloving marriage, while Elijah aspires to succeed with his new love in a nation outside of the United States, perhaps Cuba. These characters come together in Mexico, colliding with a few posses of secondary characters, including: Mexican outlaw Tiberio Vargas (Benjamin Bratt) and his deep bench of walking practise targets; the law enforcement officials in the town where they all come together (Fidel Gomez and Alfredo Quiroz); infamous bank robber Joe Cribbens (Willem Dafoe, who is obviously having fun); and a mariachi band.

 

Actually, I’m just joking about the mariachi band, though it wouldn’t have been entirely unexpected if one had wandered through the streets at one point to lend a little additional flavour to the final gunfight, a beautifully planned and edited climax that brings the movie to a grand conclusion. Hill’s action prowess has not diminished, as the cast and stunt team engage in battle with poise and ease.

 

Despite this, the middle sags a little from all the simultaneous events, which doesn’t always help the already lightning-quick characterizations in this. While Brosnahan’s clever runaway Rachel gets to deliver a fantastic, genuinely shocking monologue that indicates she isn’t all that into poor Elijah, his reasons for feeling the way he does aren’t nearly as clear. That probably applies to both Dafoe’s Joe and Waltz’s protagonist, but thanks to both actors’ plenty of presence and expression, viewers may fill in the blanks. Nevertheless, I wished I had learned more about Villegas’ Esperanza and her seeming fury. Make her the star of the next sequel, Mr. Hill, please.