The Duke was 44 years old when he made "Hondo", the film in which he, as a producer, hit on the formula which he would successfully employ for the entire second half of his long career. Like many good ideas, the formula is very simple. A strong human-interest story is played out against a backdrop of majestic scenery, and includes plenty of beat-'em-up and shoot-'em-up sequences, with the masculine values of the western genre very much to the fore - independence of spirit, standing up for what is right, self-reliance and loyalty to friends.
Hondo Lane is a free man. Indian blood runs in his veins, and he loves to roam the western wilderness which he shares with a few settlers and the Mescalero Apaches. Angie Lowe (Geraldine Page) lives the life of a lonely homesteader, bringing up her little boy Johnny on her own in an isolated log cabin. When Hondo swaggers onto her spread, seeming like an emanation of the desert itself, the sexual sparks begin to fly.
Vittorio, the chief of the Mescaleros, is an upright and proud man, a great leader who has finally lost patience with the treacherous white man. He and his braves have donned the war paint and are prowling the region, baying for blood. In the coming clash, Hondo will have to decide where his loyalties lie.
Processed in Warners' own 'Warnercolor', the film has an attractive tempera look. It was originally shot in 3-D format, which explains the sudden knife-thrusts towards the camera and the front-on spear lunges. There is some fine horsemanship on display in this movie, with small, elegant horses being ridden in a well-forward saddle style. Hondo's descent of the butte to escape his indian pursuers is particularly good.
When Hondo walks out of the wilderness, his horse having died several days previously, how come he is clean-shaven? In the knife-fight with Silva (Rodolfo Acosta), the continuity is poor, some shots having been filmed in bright sunlight, others under an overcast sky. However, though they are worth pointing out, these small snags do not mar an enjoyable film.
The sexual manoeuvring between Hondo and Angie is measured to perfection. Their propriety is impeccable, but there can be no doubting the intensity of their mutual desire or its earthiness ("I can smell you when I'm downwind of you"). Angie puts on her lilac dress for no conceivable reason other than mating display.
When Hondo talks of his dead squaw, the script soars. The half-indian's deeply poetic feel for the beautiful Apache language merges with his romantic reverie, forming a lament for both his lost love and the doomed indian way of life. This passage is symbolic of the whole film, which is largely about the interpenetration of indian and anglo-saxon cultures. Vittorio adopts the blonde Johnny (Lee Aaker) as a blood relation, and returns frequently to the Lowes' place to watch over the boy. Hondo, of course, bestrides the two civilisations, both of which are his birthright. On the broader canvas, the film is an elegy to the Mescaleros who share this land with the white settlers, but who are now in terminal decline.
Hondo is the living embodiment of Manifest Destiny. Because he is stronger and abler (and dare one say, whiter) than the Apaches, he will supersede them. And the passing of the Mescalero civilisation does not bother him unduly. "End of a way of life," he observes, having just slaughtered several dozen indians. "Too bad. It was a good way." And without another thought, he cheerfully gets on with conquering the West.
Hondo Lane is a free man. Indian blood runs in his veins, and he loves to roam the western wilderness which he shares with a few settlers and the Mescalero Apaches. Angie Lowe (Geraldine Page) lives the life of a lonely homesteader, bringing up her little boy Johnny on her own in an isolated log cabin. When Hondo swaggers onto her spread, seeming like an emanation of the desert itself, the sexual sparks begin to fly.
Vittorio, the chief of the Mescaleros, is an upright and proud man, a great leader who has finally lost patience with the treacherous white man. He and his braves have donned the war paint and are prowling the region, baying for blood. In the coming clash, Hondo will have to decide where his loyalties lie.
Processed in Warners' own 'Warnercolor', the film has an attractive tempera look. It was originally shot in 3-D format, which explains the sudden knife-thrusts towards the camera and the front-on spear lunges. There is some fine horsemanship on display in this movie, with small, elegant horses being ridden in a well-forward saddle style. Hondo's descent of the butte to escape his indian pursuers is particularly good.
When Hondo walks out of the wilderness, his horse having died several days previously, how come he is clean-shaven? In the knife-fight with Silva (Rodolfo Acosta), the continuity is poor, some shots having been filmed in bright sunlight, others under an overcast sky. However, though they are worth pointing out, these small snags do not mar an enjoyable film.
The sexual manoeuvring between Hondo and Angie is measured to perfection. Their propriety is impeccable, but there can be no doubting the intensity of their mutual desire or its earthiness ("I can smell you when I'm downwind of you"). Angie puts on her lilac dress for no conceivable reason other than mating display.
When Hondo talks of his dead squaw, the script soars. The half-indian's deeply poetic feel for the beautiful Apache language merges with his romantic reverie, forming a lament for both his lost love and the doomed indian way of life. This passage is symbolic of the whole film, which is largely about the interpenetration of indian and anglo-saxon cultures. Vittorio adopts the blonde Johnny (Lee Aaker) as a blood relation, and returns frequently to the Lowes' place to watch over the boy. Hondo, of course, bestrides the two civilisations, both of which are his birthright. On the broader canvas, the film is an elegy to the Mescaleros who share this land with the white settlers, but who are now in terminal decline.
Hondo is the living embodiment of Manifest Destiny. Because he is stronger and abler (and dare one say, whiter) than the Apaches, he will supersede them. And the passing of the Mescalero civilisation does not bother him unduly. "End of a way of life," he observes, having just slaughtered several dozen indians. "Too bad. It was a good way." And without another thought, he cheerfully gets on with conquering the West.