François Truffaut famously described Johnny Guitar as “the Beauty and the Beast of westerns, a western dream,” yet it resonates even deeper, perhaps closer to the mythic resonance of Orpheus. Like Orpheus, the legendary musician who braved the underworld to reclaim his love, Johnny Guitar hums with a similar tune of desire, risk, and the perilous nature of a single glance. Recall Orpheus’s journey, armed only with his lyre, his quest to retrieve Eurydice from Hades, burdened by the condition of never looking back – a condition he tragically failed. Similarly, in a pivotal scene of Johnny Guitar, the enigmatic musician of the title (Sterling Hayden) steps into a volatile confrontation between Vienna (Joan Crawford) and a vengeful mob, his only weapon the six strings of his guitar, playing a melody that momentarily stills the brewing storm. But the film twists the myth: here, looking, or rather, desiring glances, become instruments of destruction. Every shared look is loaded with potential for annihilation, a cruelty surpassing even Hades’ decree.
While named after him, Johnny Guitar himself is not the central figure; the film’s narrative heart beats within Vienna. She is the fiercely independent businesswoman, a saloon owner whose establishment is poised to become incredibly valuable with the anticipated arrival of the railroad. However, the true engine of the film’s drama is Emma Small (Mercedes McCambridge), a local rancher whose vehement opposition to Vienna’s burgeoning success ignites the film’s most intense conflicts and eventually, its violent climax. Emma embodies a chillingly potent force of antagonism.
Mercedes McCambridge’s portrayal of Emma is nothing short of iconic, a masterclass in expressing raw, unadulterated fear and self-loathing. This internal turmoil manifests externally as a palpable contempt, a burning hatred so intense it barely simmers beneath the surface of her piercing stare. The film’s power is concentrated in this very image: Emma, trembling on the precipice of her own confused emotions, hatred twisting her words into sharp, commanding pronouncements. Her seemingly fragile figure somehow commands a terrifying presence, overshadowing everything around her. Emma stands as one of cinema’s most unsettling villains precisely because her evil isn’t born of malice, but from a disturbingly relatable source: a profound fear of the “other” and of her own suppressed self. This fear, unchecked, metastasizes into pure, uncontrollable hate.
Beneath the surface of Johnny Guitar, a multitude of complex themes resonate. Sexual repression simmers intensely, most notably in Emma’s self-directed loathing for her attraction to the outlaw Dancin’ Kid, a man rumored to share intimacies with Vienna. Emma’s desire is twisted into a vengeful obsession to see the Kid destroyed, punishing him for stirring unwanted feelings within herself. The film also lends itself to Freudian interpretations, the ever-present guns becoming potent phallic symbols, driving forces in the Western landscape of power and masculinity. Intriguingly, a Lacanian lens reveals the “railroad,” always promised but never arriving, as Vienna’s – and perhaps the film’s – objet petit a, the elusive, promised reward, the perpetually deferred object of desire. And of course, readings abound focusing on feminism, positioning Vienna as a proto-feminist archetype. Yet, the interpretation of the “ostensibly masculine female protagonist subverts gender stereotypes” can feel somewhat simplistic, perhaps too on-the-nose in its subtext, and even a little reductive in its approach to the film’s complexities.
However, perhaps the most compelling and readily apparent reading of Johnny Guitar is as a sharp critique of McCarthyism and the infamous Hollywood blacklist. While the McCarthy era may have faded somewhat in contemporary cultural memory, its sting and impact remain potent. Films like A King in New York, once unjustly dismissed, now stand as stark reminders of the era’s chilling effect on artistic expression. It’s crucial to remember that during that period, taking any stance against the blacklist was a career-ending move. To articulate an anti-blacklist sentiment within a Hollywood film, even with subtlety, was a form of professional suicide. Even Charlie Chaplin, a figure of immense global stature, could only openly condemn McCarthyism from the safety of exile.
It’s widely known that Philip Yordan, credited as the screenwriter, was a front for Ben Maddow, who was blacklisted and unable to work in Hollywood. This suppressed anger and frustration permeates the film. The narrative itself mirrors the blacklist’s exclusionary nature: a posse of townsfolk, dressed in black, demand the exile and execution of innocent individuals based on unfounded accusations, a clear parallel to the irrational witch hunts of the McCarthy era. This alone would have been a damning and risky statement. But Johnny Guitar escalates this critique in a pivotal scene. Emma’s gang, somberly clad as if for a funeral, arrives at Vienna’s saloon, a day after delivering a 24-hour ultimatum. They demand Vienna reveal the whereabouts of the Dancin’ Kid, whom they intend to lynch for robbery. Vienna, in stark contrast, dressed in a flowing white gown, calmly plays piano, refusing their demands and rebuking their senseless aggression.
Suddenly, a boot emerges from under a table. Vienna has been concealing Turkey Ralston, the youngest member of the Kid’s gang, severely injured from a fall. Emma’s men seize Turkey, threatening to hang him immediately unless he confesses and implicates Vienna. Terrified, Turkey cries out to Vienna, his desperate plea echoing, “What do I do? I don’t wanna die!” The scene’s brilliance lies not just in its nuanced condemnation of the accusers and its compassionate understanding of those forced to betray others – the pity shown to Turkey is a rare act of cinematic empathy and forgiveness. Its true power resides in its visceral portrayal of entrapment, humanizing the abstract political drama of McCarthyism and transforming it into something almost surreal, a nightmare unfolding in vivid Trucolor.
This surreal, hyper-stylized aesthetic is part of Johnny Guitar’s enduring allure. Its Trucolor-drenched surface invites endless postmodern interpretations, its rich textures yielding layers of meaning with each viewing. It’s a film that defies simple categorization, existing as camp spectacle, revisionist Western epic, and potent political allegory simultaneously. Each interpretation feels valid, contributing to its multifaceted appeal. Did director Nicholas Ray intentionally aim to subvert every expectation, to dismantle the conventions of the most archetypal American genre? The mythology of the Western is arguably more deeply ingrained in American ideology than any Greek myth, including that of Orpheus. Perhaps confronting this mythology and forging something entirely new, something genuinely challenging, is the most profoundly American achievement of all. Johnny Guitar transcends being merely “a western dream”; it becomes a dream of America itself, its contradictions and its potential.
Score:
Cast: Joan Crawford, Sterling Hayden, Mercedes McCambridge, Scott Brady, Ward Bond, Ernest Borgnine, John Carradine
Director: Nicholas Ray
Screenwriter: Philip Yordan
Distributor: Paramount Pictures
Running Time: 110 min
Rating: NR
Year: 1954
Buy: Video
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