Rio Bravo

My favorite movie stars John Wayne as John T. Chance, a Texas sheriff struggling to hold powerful land baron Nathan Burdett’s no-good brother Joe for murder. Nathan has an army of cutthroat mercenaries. Wayne has Dude, a drunken deputy played by Dean Martin, Stumpy, a crippled curmudgeon played by Walter Brennan, Colorado, a young gunslinger played by Ricky Nelson, and Feather, a showgirl played by Angie Dickinson.

The first ten minutes establish the premise with minimal dialogue. From there, the story unfolds at a languid pace. Instead of shootouts and chases, much of the film sees the cast sitting or standing around indoors, talking or reacting to one another as the land baron tightens his grip. There’s even musical number featuring a duet between Colorado and Dude.

And here, dear reader, I falter. I can’t explain why the film works so well. I can point to Wayne and Martin’s charisma, but the film speaks to something deeper. A good chunk revolves around Chance rehabilitating Dude. Chance doesn’t coddle him, but it’s not “tough love” either. Chance believes Dude will pull through. For Dude, Chance’s faith proves stronger than any addiction.

It’s a wonderful male fantasy, and for two hours and change, I believe it. Every time. Chance represents the strong, honest, capable, professional man I strive to be. Dude embodies the flawed, vulnerable man I feel I am. Chance’s faith in Dude is Chance’s faith in me. Every viewing of Rio Bravo delivers a low-key cathartic experience. It’s not a heavy film—comic relief book-ends the most powerful scenes—but it punches above its weight.

And about the comic relief. Much of it comes via Stumpy, but repeat viewings have lent a comedic shade to many of Chance’s lines, which doesn’t diminish their impact. When he says, “Sorry don’t get it done, Dude,” I smirk at the delivery but the message resonates.