Many still consider the western only as a genre. But it is not so. A good cowboy in a hat, shooting a Colt or Winchester in a bad cowboy in a hat, is, of course, a western. And the fat herds of white clouds floating over the red canyons, western. And the distant smoke of the Indian fire on the background of a sad strip of pink sunset, and the stagecoach, dusting in the morning haze over the winding roads of the prairies, and the dreary howl of the coyote in the night, the moss chins with the crumbs of chewing tobacco in a week's bristles, and the cleanly shaved street of the deserted town, who stood in a tense expectation of a duel between good and evil, is also a western.
Bison, running away from the roar of trains, trains running from bandit bullets, bandits fleeing from incorruptible sheriffs - all this, of course, is a western. But not as narrowly as it is commonly believed in the practice of world cinema - the genre. And more globally - the stylistic and atmospheric phenomenon of American cinema, a kind of generalized kind of narration that absorbed both the historical canvas, and adventure romance, and detective, and comedy, and melodrama, and a philosophical parable. Genre, which has absorbed genres, is already an epic.
Western - cinematic epic of America.
Pure poetry of plastic and sound twenty four frames per second. A high conventionality, in which pauses between the replicas of characters are much more important than the replicas they themselves uttered. The noise of the wind, the snoring of horses, the quiet clanking of bridles, the insinuating crackle of a cocked cock, the brief exchange of looks and the shot that always places a point at the end of this poem.
Its meaning is not in high ideas and deep subtexts, not in the rich and bizarre overtones of the game of the author's mind, but in the density of electrified air, in the greasing of the precisely found detail, in the deep concreteness of confrontation between experienced men who defend their own honor, dignity and independence from all and all and, first of all, from each other. Add to their harsh, laconic characters of piercing beauty landscapes - and you will receive the only true poem about male solitude.