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Three cowhands, between jobs, have the bad dumb luck to pitch night camp in the same valley as a cabin full of guys who just robbed a stagecoach and killed the guard. Come morning, a posse arrives, forms up along the ridge, and takes for granted that everyone down below is guilty--fit for either shooting to bits or hanging from a tree, whichever comes first. Precisely half of Ride in the Whirlwind's 82 minutes is devoted to tapping the matter-of-fact, absurdist horror of that situation. In the remaining half, the two surviving cowpokes (Jack Nicholson and Cameron Mitchell) seek shelter at a farmhouse where they reluctantly threaten the farmer, accept breakfast from his wife, flirt with his daughter (Millie Perkins), play some checkers, and hope to remain undetected till nightfall. Somehow, when people speak of the two existentialist Westerns that Monte Hellman made on a single trek into the desert in 1966, Ride in the Whirlwind never gets as much attention as The Shooting. All right, so it doesn't star Warren Oates (though it does have Harry Dean Stanton, Oates's clear successor as sainted American character actor), and Jack Nicholson's screenplay isn't as infatuated with arty enigma or coffeehouse-quaint dialogue as Adrien Joyce's Shooting script. But of the two, Ride arguably cuts deeper as a meditation on things Western, and it's surely the one that would bring nods of recognition from a Parnassian review board comprised of William S. Hart, Harry Carey, and the various casts of The Virginian. Unforgettable, unbelievable, yet of course entirely believable Zen moment: H.D. Stanton, mere seconds before holding up the stagecoach, steps behind a rock to take a leak. --Richard T. Jameson
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