One of the enjoyable moments for me during TCM’s April spotlight on Robert Taylor has been the discovery of some of this actor’s less well known roles. My appreciation of his work has increased now that I’ve had the opportunity to see him as a callow youth whose voice has yet to deepen and whose then 150 pound frame may have wavered a bit when hoisting Greta Garbo’s Camille (1936). Unexpectedly, he could let go once in awhile and do a silly, awkward dance in Time Square Lady (1935) like most people in their twenties, or respond with an unexpected depth of feeling to Frank Borzage’s sensitive direction in Three Comrades (1938).  By the time that his worn, sometimes pained face bore the marks of a somewhat stressful life, giving his darker, postwar characters a greater emotional weight, he’d been at the job of “movie star” for almost two decades.

Taylor first won a spot in the hearts of many movie fans in the art deco ’30s, thanks to MGM’s careful packaging, hard work and, not least of all, his stream-lined form and face, (his head when young, with that Roman nose and widow’s peak, always reminded me of a carving by Brancusi). Taylor was a man who reportedly “arrived at the studio every morning wearing a tie and a pin through his collar” and did as he was told by Louis B. Mayer and later Dore Schary for over a quarter of a century. This malleability meant that he appeared in movies he disliked and showed up at premieres and even Congressional hearings when asked to by his studio, (the latter Congressional appearance was during the worst days of McCarthyism). He kept his mouth shut and laid off “the intellectual stuff” in interviews at the request of L.B., even though Taylor was an educated man. His own interests may have tended more toward his running his ranch, fishing and hunting, but by the late 1940s some of his life experiences were written in the lines on his face. This is when he really started to get interesting to me.

By the time that he convincingly embodied some of his less-than-heroic roles, the life experience reflected in the actor’s narrowing blue eyes could be a strength for him as an actor. A mature actor replaced “the pretty boy” image he reportedly loathed, allowing him to give some intriguing, enigmatic performances that were veiled in a guarded air and seasoned with some deep-dish cynicism. For me at least, Taylor‘s capable but disinterested air as Marcus Vincinius in the epic, 171 minute Quo Vadis? (1951) never quite conveyed much about the reality of one human being’s struggle with the spiritual and the worldly, despite the dramatic tale of Romans vs. Christians. However, in the same transitional period in movie history when MGM was casting him in classic adventure roles such as that and Ivanhoe (1952), once in awhile other, more nuanced films were thrown in the mix as well.

Interestingly, many of what now appear to be Robert Taylor‘s more complex portrayals, in films such as the compelling High Wall (1947-Curtis Bernhardt) and now classic Devil’s Doorway (1950-Anthony Mann), were perceived failures in their day, incurring heavy losses at the waning postwar box office. In Ride, Vaquero! (1953), Taylor appeared in this fifth Western of his career playing “Rio,” the right hand man to a flamboyantly decadent Anthony Quinn, a bandit king who controls the territory. Quinn’s entertaining performance as a loose cannon sometimes threatens to overwhelm the film, as he appears to have been encouraged to reprise his powerhouse role in this movie, taking elements of his portrayal of Eufemio Zapata from Viva Zapata (1952), which had won him a well-deserved Best Supporting Oscar award in the previous year.

Mild Spoilers Below * Mild Spoilers Below

Set in Texas near the Mexican border (though filmed near Kenab, Utah), Ride, Vaquero was directed by the uneven but gifted John Farrow and written by Frank Fenton, a screenwriter whose dialogue still crackles with a pointed, world weary crispness and reflects Farrow’s concerns with spiritual and specifically religious themes (personified in this movie by a Franciscan priest aka a sounding board for Rio. The priest is played unconvincingly by Kurt Kaszner).  In this movie, Robert Taylor was cast in a less flashy role than Anthony Quinn, but, as a friend pointed out to me, even though Taylor gives the impression that his dialogue barely exceeds ten words, his presence and the lines he does say are almost all pointed self-indictments and telegraph his inability to convey the burden of being conscious and alive, a man filled with self-disgust and adrift between the Mexican society that nurtured him as an orphan and the white society that seems so often superficial and bland, populated by weaselly characters such as Percy Helton‘s uncredited appearance as a gossipy shopkeeper and Ted de Corsia‘s politically wishy-washy sheriff in nearby Brownsville. Far more appealing among the colorful malefactors is the briefly glimpsed Jack Elam, who plays an ambitious member of Quinn‘s gang nursing a jealousy of Taylor‘s continued cherished place in his boss’s heart and noting Quinn‘s tentative grip on reality. When Quinn reports Elam’s increasing restlessness to Taylor, the two exchange a quick knowing glance, as Esquada says “Can you imagine a smile on Barton’s face?,” to which Rio comments “ It’s the only place where a smile could be ugly.”

Cynically continuing to do Quinn’s bidding even if it increases his deepening apathy, Taylor seems momentarily roused from his bitter reverie by a trip to town when he sees Ava Gardner alighting from a steamboat to greet her husband, (Howard Keel, appearing in one of his non-musical roles, as noted by a commentator of this post). The couple, leaving the ruined South behind, are intent on establishing a new home, with dreams of building an empire dancing through decent guy Keel‘s somewhat stolid imagination.

At this point, the film’s plot seems to get in the way of the interesting characters played by Taylor and Quinn. Burning down the Keel ranch house, the newcomer rebuilds a fortress-like new abode and attempts to organize his fellow ranchers against the intimidation of Esqueda’s lawless presence. Even Rio, after being captured by Keel during a raid, is persuaded to ally himself with the righteous settler, in part perhaps because he feels that Keel has spared his life, but also, based on the intentness with which Rio watches the suspicious wife (Gardner).

Later, when Gardner asks Taylor about the ties between the enigmatic gunman and his adopted brother, Quinn, he lets his guard down long enough to explain that it may stem in part from Quinn‘s concern how things between them will end up. Taylor says quietly that the difference between them is that he “knows how it will end.”

As a miffed Anthony Quinn, biding his time till Rio returns to him comments, he is “glad to see something touch him.”

Yet the undeniable appeal of Ava Gardner as a woman who could “raise the dead” from their graves seems to irk Taylor‘s scowling character. Their exchanges are brief, usually with Gardner protectively asking questions of this stranger. Taylor’s demeanor seems more evocative of Jack Palance‘s menacing hired gun than the instantly iconic Shane (1953) played by Alan Ladd in the Western that preceded Ride, Vaquero! in American theaters three months before this movie.

While much of this part of the story could easily be interpreted as a metaphor for the rationale behind Cold War alliances in the real world, it is rather far-fetched and so flatly conveyed that the more engrossing characters take over each scene, leaving few moments for Keel and Gardner to make an impression. Keel‘s expression of respect and appreciation for a former enemy might have been developed as a sign of wisdom that this former rebel officer had garnered after five years of war, but the script and Keel‘s apparent tentativeness keep him from illuminating his character’s inner life beyond the one dimensional. The unlikely trust that the places in Rio might also have been more logical if Keel’s desperation to establish a home in the West had been illustrated with a few flourishes and some sense of all the man had been through in the war.

Ava Gardner, at the height of her beauty, had demonstrated quite a bit of chemistry opposite Robert Taylor in The Bribe (1949), (during which the pair reportedly had an affair). Though hardly a prude, while working under John Farrow‘s notorious guidance, according to Lee Server’s biography, Ava Gardner: Love Is Nothing (St. Martin’s Press), she bluntly told visiting reporters who asked how filming was going that “it stinks” while she ignored her director’s crude advances and petty cruelties toward others. Being a movie director rarely seems compatible with being a well-liked “nice guy,”, but it seems that few actresses found Farrow simpatico, and Audrey Totter and Geraldine Page were among those few who managed to give good performances in Alias, Nick Beal and Hondo directed by him. Most women appeared to regard him with disdain, (see Maureen O’Hara‘s ‘Tis Herself for one blistering account of an apparently not atypical experience).  Gardner, who was involved with Frank Sinatra and increasingly antagonistic toward MGM, sometimes seems pallid and stiff in this underwritten, sometimes illogical character. Rio’s attraction to Gardner‘s character is never fully articulated, consisting of penetrating gazes and cryptic comments that seem to allude to something intimate, even when he explains the shape of a brand that Rio has designed for Keel and Gardner‘s ranch by shooting the design in a wall. The inarticulate feelings of Rio toward this woman, and his tacit admiration for her single-minded, honorable husband seems to irk Taylor‘s character. He seems pained to find himself feeling emotions such as loyalty, and perhaps lust or even love.

Rio senses that the end of his uneasy alliance with Quinn is near as years of suppressed emotion bubble to the surface, as it is revealed that Esqueda and Rio grew up together, even “sharing the same bed.” The homosexual theme inherent in the story is muted, but undeniable, even when the script includes one scene when Gardner impulsively kisses Rio, acknowledging their mutual attraction, only to receive a slap from Taylor for shattering his romantic impression of her as well as his fear of what he feels. The real couple, whether Rio likes it or not in this film, is Esqueda and his foster brother, Rio. Their simmering enmity and affection brings both to a self-destructive end, as Rio sacrifices himself to  protect Keel, and to allow civilization to flourish. Too bad the script didn’t take a bit longer to delineate the other characters and the tensions among them as well as Quinn, and particularly Taylor did in creating their characters.