8. Stagecoach (1939)

by Brandie Ashe

In 1939, John Ford made what was arguably the most important film of his career: Stagecoach. Now, that is not to say that Stagecoach is necessarily his “best” film; that, of course, is a matter of opinion (and majority opinion over the years has tended to hand that title to Ford’s searing 1956 Western The Searchers, or the 1940 drama The Grapes of Wrath, or the three films in his so-called “Cavalry Trilogy,” or any number of the other films on his expansive resume). But what makes this movie–Ford’s first Western in more than a decade, and his first with sound–such a remarkable standout in the director’s impressive filmography is how, at the time, it added a refreshing new depth to the increasingly stale concept of the Western. With Stagecoach, Ford expands upon and enhances general Western tropes to craft an intriguing character study that transcends the prototypical cowboy yarn. The end result is one of the landmark movies of the genre, a classic so intricately and thoughtfully composed that it would influence an entire generation of filmmakers, including, by his own account, a young Orson Welles.

It also helps that Stagecoach happens to be one hell of an entertaining movie.

The story is a relatively simple one: nine passengers on a stagecoach must brave treacherous territory to make it from one isolated Western town to another. Those on board include the easily confused driver, Buck (Andy Devine); a determined marshal, Curley (George Bancroft); a prostitute, Dallas (top-billed Claire Trevor), who is essentially being banished by a “moral guard” of the town’s womenfolk; Doc Boone (Thomas Mitchell, in a wonderful, Oscar-winning performance), an alcoholic who has driven himself out of practice; Henry Gatewood (Berton Churchill), a banker with shady motives; Lucy Mallory (Louise Platt), a pregnant Southern lady who seeks to meet up with her soldier husband along the way; a timid “whiskey drummer,” Mr. Peacock (the ever-appropriately-named Donald Meek); and a gambler, Hatfield (John Carradine), who knows Lucy from “back home” and tags along as her escort.

As the trip gets underway, the stagecoach encounters the Ringo Kid (John Wayne), an escaped prisoner for whom Curley has been searching. Curley’s desire to capture the fugitive is not precisely to bring him to justice; knowing that Ringo seeks to kill Luke Plummer (Tom Tyler), the man who murdered his family, the marshal–an old friend of Ringo’s family–wants to put Ringo back in jail to protect him from his surer-shot adversary. Ringo has no choice but to go along in the stagecoach, where he immediately takes a shine to Dallas, much to her pleasure and obvious confusion.

The stagecoach journey is anything but easy. The cavalry regiment that accompanies them part of the way must soon depart, leaving them unprotected as they move through turbulent and dangerous Apache territory. They lose horses to a group of thieves at one stop; at another, they find a decimated settlement and dead bodies. Complicating matters further, Lucy receives word that her husband has been injured, which sends her into labor. And if all that weren’t enough, even more deadly trouble lies ahead as their trip comes to its supposed conclusion.

The richly-developed, motley crew of characters is one of the major elements that makes Stagecoach such a distinct entry in the Western canon. No mere caricatures are these; instead, they are fully fleshed-out people, with complicated backstories and tangled motivations driving them. Ford takes full advantage of the cramped quarters to build a little world in which the film can explore the inherent class differences between the characters, both overtly and visually. The lines in the stagecoach are clearly drawn between the classes. Dallas, who is looked down upon by everyone except Doc Boone, is squeezed uncomfortably in a corner, separated from the upper crust–Lucy–by Gatewood. The banker, who rests solidly in the middle class, functions as a sort of visual metaphorical barrier between the two women. The same goes for the opposite side of the coach, with middle-class salesman Peacock performing a similar function between lower-class drunkard Boone and Hatfield, the gambler who wears an attitude of grand Southern grandeur that rests as heavy as the gentlemanly cape across his shoulders. And when Ringo joins the group, he sits on the floor in the center of the carriage–a wanted fugitive, he belongs with none of them. He seems to enjoy his position as the inherent outsider, and has no qualms about commenting on the behavior of any of the others in the coach’s insular world.

A typical problem with many Westerns is in the way those movies try–and fail–to develop their female characters. Stagecoach, however, does not have this problem; Dallas and Lucy are two of the more strongly-etched figures within the film, deftly juxtaposed with one another: Dallas the proverbial hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold, Lucy Mallory a rigid paragon of moral decency. Though Dallas offers her assistance to the clearly uncomfortable Lucy, the other woman–who has been warned about Dallas’ reputation by the nosy biddies of the town–refuses to acknowledge her or accept her help. Lucy’s not the only one who snubs Dallas: Hatfield, set in the ways of the old South, treats the virtuous Mrs. Mallory with deference while barely casting a glimpse in Dallas’ direction (and later in the film, when it seems all is lost in the midst of the Apache raid, he saves his last bullet to misguidedly protect Lucy’s greatest asset–her virtue–with no thought to Dallas’ potential suffering at the hands of their attackers). Only Ringo acknowledges Dallas as a woman worthy of recognition, from the start treating her with the respect that she so desperately seems to crave.

However, the archetypal Madonna-whore complex in which these two women are initially cast is turned on its head after Lucy gives birth. In a brilliantly-staged scene, Dallas emerges from the bedroom, smiling hesitantly, clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle as she approaches the men. They gather around her, gazing down at the baby girl with a mix of reverence and wonder, as Dallas beams beatifically. Forgotten for a moment is Dallas’ tattered past; here she is just a woman, a helpmate and nurse, protective and nurturing. Ford paints an odd yet compelling Madonna-child tableau in this scene, one that continues through the climax of the film as Dallas unquestioningly guards the child during the Apache attack at risk to her own life. By the time the stagecoach rolls into Lordsburg, it is Lucy’s turn to offer her help: she offers to assist Dallas (presumably with her reputation in town), though the other woman politely shakes her head, recognizing the futility of Lucy’s offer while kindly and gracefully acknowledging the hard-earned truth behind it.

Characterization may be the heart of Stagecoach, but it is not the only thing to recommend it. The film boasts several action sequences that are virtually unmatched in other entries in the genre. The climactic Apache attack is a tightly-edited, beautifully composed scene that is truly thrilling to watch, thanks in large part to the work of fearless stuntman Yakima Canutt, who literally risked life and limb for a couple of astonishing stunts, one of which actually sends him underneath the fast-moving coach. Ford uses the gorgeous backdrop of Monument Valley particularly well here, centering the lone stagecoach in the midst of the grand, expansive landscape as a group of Apaches, lead by the dreaded Geronimo, stare down at the unsuspecting travelers before mounting their attack. Once underway, the action is furiously fast-paced, as Ford skillfully juggles multiple perspectives to convey the characters’ various reactions to the battle.

As soon as one trouble is taken care of, another crops up: the travelers have arrived in Lordsburg, and Luke Plummer and his two brothers await. Although the shoot-out is ultimately a relatively abbreviated scene, it nonetheless reverberates with tension. Ford sets a dark and forbidding stage for the confrontation between Ringo and his old enemies; while the adversaries approach from opposite sides of an empty street, emerging from deep shadows, the camera goes low to the ground as Ringo dives down and shoots. It’s the not the first time Ford utilizes low-angle shots in the film, but this is perhaps the most striking use, with Ringo’s dive towards the camera highlighting the slight desperation (and undeniable ingenuity) in his unpredictable move.

Ford’s own ingenuity in composing the camera shots (alongside cinematographer Bert Glennon, who would earn Oscar nominations for his work on both this film and another Ford Western later the same year, the Technicolor Drums Along the Mohawk) remains one of the most renowned elements of Stagecoach. In addition to the high-angle shots of the outdoor scenes, which showcase the broad vistas of the setting, Ford also employs a series of low camera angles that reveal the ceilings in certain scenes (a move Welles would later borrow for Citizen Kane in 1941), closing in the action and adding to the almost claustrophobic feeling that pervades much of the film. One of the most famous shots in the movie comes upon Wayne’s onscreen introduction: the camera tracks quickly to his face, indeed so quickly that the screen blurs as the camera loses focus for an instant before focusing on his young mug. It’s not Wayne’s first movie, but the moment nonetheless functions as a virtual cinematic coming-out party, one that effectively announces Wayne’s impending status as an icon of film. And while Stagecoach may not be Wayne’s most adept performance as an actor (for that, look to his unparalleled portrayal of Ethan Edwards in The Searchers), it is here, at the beginning of his long and fruitful partnership with Ford, where we see the first real evidence of Wayne’s amazing screen presence.

All things said, it’s little wonder that Stagecoach is generally recognized as one of the hallmarks of the Western canon. Everything about it just works: the aptly-chosen cast, who by and large bring their characters to vibrant, full life; the savvy staging of scenes; the solid and effective structure of the plot, which moves the action along without seeming too abrupt nor overlong. But perhaps even more important than all of that, Stagecoach is simply an immensely enjoyable film, and an immensely beautiful one to boot.

And just to end on a personal note, I must say, Stagecoach remains my favorite Western, the one which turned me into a true fan of the genre, and to me, it just does not get any better than this.