Jeremiah Johnson

They don’t make them like this anymore. Really, they didn’t make them like this back then, either. Or anytime. I suspect this flick is an example of the impact of star power. Take an actor with megawatt power—like, say, Robert Redford in the early 1970s—and he can pretty much make whatever movie he wants, even if it has a razor thin storyline, pretentious script structure (complete with overture, unnecessary intermission, and a goofy, balladeering countrified chorus), and virtually no other recognizable beings in it. Beyond Redford’s desire to make a movie about a mountain man, there seems to be little point to this exercise in western mythmaking, though one must appreciate the splendor of the scenery that serves as the backdrop for the action. Also, kudos go to said action, which provides doses of satisfying violence to punctuate the long ruminations in the narrative (if you generously call it that). This one certainly works better if you’re in a mood for contemplating life back in the day and above a certain elevation, but if you prefer something a bit more standard in your night of cinematic entertainment, you might want to consider just staying down in your valley.