Lonely Are The Brave (1962): The Last Cowboy and the End of the West

It’s common to talk about the American character, but to define it is like trying to nail jelly to a wall. The problem is, we are a nation and a people of contradictions.

We've got our Horatio Alger myths about "self-made men" pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, "born on third base" success stories like those of George W. Bush - as well as more sincere invocations of self-made success like Herman Cain’s, and alternative but similar "hard work equals success" narratives such as Bill Clinton's rise from "a place called Hope". We worship wealth and success, but despise bankers and resent the superrich. Americans believe fervently in education, but  often disdain intelligent discourse. We worship, side by side, FDR and Ronald Reagan, and simultaneously expect the government to protect Social Security and Medicare, regulate industries that could harm public safety, and fix the broken economy; at the same time demanding lower taxes, less regulation, and a balanced budget. We are a nation of laws, but we despise lawmakers as much as lawbreakers. In fact, we have a history of mythologizing our more colorful lawbreakers: Billy the Kid, Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde, etc.

De Toqueville was on to something, though, when, 175 years ago, he summed up  the American character as driven by individualism and self sufficiency. Back then, those who found settled life oppressive could and often did light off for the territories. As these regions were populated and civilized, however, Americans took a nostalgic look back at the heroes and villains of the "wild West" - the last refuge of the truly "rugged individual". Through much of the 20th century books and movies about "the West", and particularly its hero, the cowboy, an idealized exemplification of the American character, abounded. Westerns and cowboys  were a Hollywood staple: Hopalong Cassidy, Lash Larue,  Roy Rogers, John Wayne, Stagecoach, Shane, High Noon, Rio Bravo, etc. Most of the heroes of these pieces were outsiders, honorable loners on horseback, well meaning but good with a gun, knights errant of the range, exemplifying the American ideals of liberty, self-reliance, and quiet confidence.

Out of this tradition comes Jack Burns (Kirk Douglas), the anachronistic protagonist of Lonely Are the Brave (Douglas’ favorite film, and one of his very best). We meet Jack Burns in the opening scene, alone,  in boots, denim and bandana, recumbent, somewhere out there on the Southwestern range, with cowboy hat over his eyes,  just waking up, his horse, Whiskey”, tethered and grazing nearby.  It’s a lovely iconic scene. A growing rumbly sound intrudes on the scene, and as Jack slowly gazes skyward, we see what he sees: a trio of jets streaking across the western sky, with white vapor trails behind, upending our expectations. We understand that this is no ordinary Western.

Its 1953. Burns has heard that his best buddy Paul has been jailed (for helping illegal Mexican immigrants) and he’s coming back to see what he can do about it. Coming home again is certainly more of a hassle  than it used to be. For one thing, the land is partitioned now; but Burns, anticipating that, simply cuts through the barbed wire fence stretching for miles across his path. ( I imagine him quietly singing Don’t Fence Me In, while doing this.) Crossing a busy highway  buzzing with whizzing cars and trucks is a thornier matter,  especially with a skittish horse, but he manages it. After dropping in on Paul’s wife (a young Gena Rowlands, in her first featured film role), Burns figures he’s gotta bust Paul outta jail. First he has to get himself arrested (in order to get to Paul); then they’ll break out and resume their libertarian life, roving from place to place, doing whatever they want to do. Neither jail nor society can constrain truly free men, he argues. But Paul (Michael Kane), once a kindred spirit, has changed; he’s got a wife and a kid now; they are the center of his life, providing structure and meaning to his existence. He’s going to man up, do his time, and get back to them as soon as possible.  

Burns is a tolerant man. Each of us has to make their own choices in life, and he respects Paul’s choice, even if he doesn’t really understand it. Where Paul sees meaningful responsibility, Burns sees a restraint on freedom. He busts himself out of jail, precipitating a manhunt/chase that takes up the last half of the picture.  All Burns needs to do is get over the mountain ridge into the forestland beyond, and he’ll be home-free into Mexico. Sheriff Johnson (Walter Matthau, playing against type as a drawling southern lawman)  understands this and is going to do whatever it takes to stop him. This being modern times, the contest is between a man and his horse versus a law enforcement posse equipped with Jeeps, a helicopter, two-way radios, etc.  In truth, it’s a struggle between unfettered liberty and the constraints of a civilized society.

In the end, the law doesn’t get him but the modern world does.

Lonely Are The Brave was written by the great Dalton Trumbo (Roman Holiday, Spartacus) from a book by Edward Abbey (himself an iconoclastic, libertarian and environmentalist) entitled The Brave Cowboy (An Old Tale In A New Time).  It was produced by Douglas himself, who wanted to and succeeded in making a thought provoking film.  On one level, it’s a tribute to the Western movies of the twenties, thirties, forties and fifties, and the cowboy literature that preceded them, encompassing many of the familiar Western conventions: the cowboy’s close relationship with his horse, the barroom brawl (this film’s got a great one – with Douglas fighting a one armed man), the jailbreak, the sheriff’s posse chasing a good man, two men of honor in love with the same woman, and so on. On another level, it is a eulogy on  the death of the West and the Cowboy.   At the same time, Lonely are The Brave is a lament and commentary about the environmental ruination of the Southwest, reflecting Abbeys lifelong concern. Phillip Lathrop’s excellent black and white cinematography holds all of these themes together. It is undoubtedly the most notable film that director David Miller ever made.

I’ve always liked Kirk Douglas (Lust for Life, Spartacus), but he’s never been better than in this movie. In most of his roles, Douglas is wound up very tightly, playing intense characters with pent up energy or emotion ready to burst forth like a coiled spring;  but as  Jack Burns, he’s playing against  that type. Burns is relaxed, comfortable within himself, open, philosophical. He smiles a lot. And he looks great in this picture: lean, fit, even youthful in his gait and posture – though he was in his mid forties in 1962. His performance in the film’s emotional  final scene is just fabulous: he says not a word but conveys so much humanity with just his eyes, it will move you.

The other actors are good too, especially Rowlands, Matthau, and George Kennedy as a mean prison guard/deputy sheriff. But this is Douglas’ movie (although Whisky, his horse, is pretty memorable as well).

This unforgettable but rarely seen classic gets my highest recommendation.

Available streaming on Amazon, Google Play, iTunes and many other streaming services; and maybe on DVD from Netflix