THE BRASS LEGEND (1956)

D: Gerd Oswald. P: Herman Cohen. W: Don Martin, George Zuckerman, Jess Arnold. Ph: Charles Van Enger. M: Paul Dunpal. St: Hugh O’Brian (Wade Addams), Nancy Gates (Linda Gipson), Raymond Burr (Tris Hatten), Reba Tassell (Millie Street), Donald MacDonald (Clay Gipson)

“It’s the worst kind of killer that would shoot a man in the back just as soon as look at him”

The unusual title of Oswald’s archetypal B-western refers to the widespread belief that outlaw Tris Hatten is dead. Sheriff Wade Addams thinks otherwise; the legend is “as phony as a brass gold piece”. He is proved right when Hatten sneaks back to the town of Apache Bend and winds up in Addams’ custody. It is the manner and the circumstances of his capture – not least who tipped off the sheriff – that comprise the meat of the drama.

Shot in around six days, and betraying all the usual signs of budgetary and scheduling restraints (indifferent performances, limited use of locations – it is largely a town-bound story), the film has the same concerns as countless other westerns: what is the proportionate use of force in the maintenance of order, for example, and what is the true gauge of a man? This was a prevalent theme in the wake of Shane and one that resonated throughout Fifties cinema, rife as it was with wayward youngsters. Here, Addams mentors young teen Clay, his fiancée’s brother. The boy’s inquisitive spirit leads him one night to follow a speeding buggy to neighbouring ‘Mex Town’, where he spies Hatten in a clinch with his woman. Addams urges him to secrecy before making the arrest.

The classically square-jawed O’Brian was the star of TV’s The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp (1955-61) and plays an equally upstanding character here – too good, indeed, for the town. The script, a graduate of the High Noon school, imputes the citizens’ criticism of the lawman to hypocrisy and small-mindedness. They readily accept rumours that he coldcocked Hatten unfairly; some call him a brute, others a coward. The abuse is particularly shrill from Millie, Hatten’s girl, who incites retribution against both the sheriff and whoever led him to the outlaw – the “real man” against whom Addams finds himself measured. His travails are aggravated by the local newsman, who encourages Clay to take credit for his part in the arrest – which, of course, makes for a great front page. It also tarnishes Addams’ reputation and puts Clay in a would-be assassin’s gunsight.

Addams’ predicament mirrors that of many Fifties protagonists who found themselves interrogated or ostracised by an ungrateful society, or underwent emotional crises compounded by their propensity for violence. There is no depth to the issue here, however, never a sense that Addams is buckling under pressure, merely fleeting expressions of disillusionment (“This town’s just like all the others”). This was not the occasion for O’Brian to exercise his acting abilities.

While the script invites scrutiny of small-town mores, it is less considerate of its female characters. In fact, there are only two. Linda, played by Gates with a perpetually furrowed brow, has little more to do than plead with her dutiful beau to compromise his principles (shades of High Noon’s Amy Kane). Otherwise she knows her place in the patriarchal order of things; “This sounds like men talk,” she says when Addams discusses their prospects with her father, retiring to wash the dishes. Tassell’s fiery bargirl, while far more influential on the plot (it is her drunken lapdog who takes a pop at Clay on her behalf), is strictly the bad guy’s proxy.

The bad guy himself is played with his customary intelligence by Burr, who realised that a man with his bulky frame had no need to chew the scenery or raise the volume. Spending most of his screen time behind bars, he gives Hatten a relaxed demeanour that differs markedly from the rigidity of the sheriff. The impression of nonchalance in extremis is confirmed once Hatten breaks free, aided by a former acolyte, and faces Addams in a decisive showdown. Hatten greets his fate like one who doesn’t much care if he lives or dies.

In most respects a functional production, The Brass Legend does boast attractive deep-focus photography by Van Enger. Oswald responds with some dynamic staging, as when Addams outguns three toughs in the saloon in a rare outburst of violence. The director’s big-screen career peaked the same year with the noir-esque A Kiss Before Dying. He would soon transfer to television but returned to the western in 1957 with a John Derek vehicle, Fury at Showdown. Like this one, it was a neatly composed snapshot of the genre at maturity. Kevin Grant