Space Battleship Yamato, No. 2 - Farewell to Space Battleship Yamato (1978)

The “Space Battleship Yamato” TV series didn’t gain mainstream success in Japan until it was reedited into Space Battleship Yamato: The Movie – which was indeed a movie, as the title self-indicates. And what a success it was!, out grossing the mighty Star Wars…in Japan at least (this is a fact I shall keep on repeating as long as it’s pertinent). And with this sort of success, more Yamato could be made – directly for the screen! It took but a year for Farewell Space Battleship Yamato (AKA Farewell Space Battleship Yamato: Warriors of Love, double-AKA Farewell to Space Battleship Yamato: In the Name of Love, triple-AKA Arrivederci Yamato, and that's not even all of 'em) to reach theaters.

(Also, most English speakers call the series Star Blazers. That could increase some confusion.)

The plot of the former film (and show) was, at times, a surprisingly mature space opera about using a relic from Japan’s past (the WWII-era Yamato) to save humanity from extinction. It was a potent metaphor. It was also full of silly, blue humanoid aliens to render said metaphor over-obvious [cough!] Avatar [cough!].

I could enjoy the story for what it was, and thus overlook the dated appearance of the animation. Since it went by previously without comment, I shall sum up The Movie’s visuals now: animation at a frame rate of 3-per-second, reuse of cells, explosions that look like the watercolors I vomited out in elementary school. But it was a TV show from the early 70s, and so we cannot fault it for that. But a theatrical sequel to a highly successful original has the chance to upgrade the visuals, and retain the storytelling complexity of the first. Also, the narrative awkwardness of a reedited television program should no longer exist; this story shall be unabridged. Let’s see how they did, shall we…


Well, the animation is technically superior, I can tell that right away! Budget – employed!

As for the story…The fundamental plot hook isn’t as exciting, since the historical metaphor is somewhat lessened. So is the sense of hopelessness in the face of the universe. But the ending packs a mighty wallop, which raises Farewell to Space Battleship Yamato right up there with the first. And consider that title – Where might this thing be going?

It is now the year 2201 A.D., and Sci-Fi Earth is prospering. But a new threat to peace in the universe looms predictably, with a persistent, never-ending organ soundtrack, Universal horror style. It is the warlike White Comet Empire, humanoid aliens (green this time, rather than blue) who travel the galaxy enslaving (read: murdering) all civilizations they encounter. Their empire’s capital, Gatlantis, is disguised as a white comet, hence the name. Yeah, this is a vast sudden mass of space opera wackiness, which I still cannot quite connect with the series’ more serious moments.

Earth, though, will have no thought given to the White Comet of Gatlantis, so things aren’t quite as dire right off the bat. In the scant year since before, the planet has gone from Mad Max to “The Jetsons,” and Earth’s defense fleet has rendered the heroic battleship Yamato obsolete, especially with the launch of the flagship Andromeda.

But our focus here is decidedly on the characters, specifically former hero-of-the-day Captain Susumu Kodai, who is now mere days away from marrying love interest Yuki Mori. Their romantic, capitalist nirvana is portrayed in such an Edenic manner, it’s only my own assumption that much anime follows this tone that prevented me from recognizing how all this was a setup for tragedy.


On the one-year anniversary of Yamato’s return from her Earth-saving journey, the entire crew reunites at the memorial to their deceased captain, Okita. Here we reconnect with old friends, which is how Japanese audiences surely saw this franchise’s cast: Daisuke Shima, Sabera, Dr. Sado, and the rest. And with Yamato to be put out of commission and made a war memorial, this is likely the last time they’ll ever be a group.

Around now Earth Defense HQ receives transmissions with vague warnings of the dread Gatlantean threat. They completely ignore them. Only Kodai sees any reason to fear, so he goes over his superiors and organizes, in essence, a Yamato mutiny! The entire crew is on board with this, so to speak, loyalty to their ship (and all-encompassing symbol of Japan) ranking higher than allegiance to military shortsightedness. And so, half an hour in (it’s a long animated movie), the Yamato and all hands take their spurious leave of Earth, launching into space with a full orchestral soundtrack singing their praises.


Following one short, serene passage past Mars and Jupiter (director Noboru Ishiguro once again has no interest in Uranus), Kodai has his worst suspicions confirmed. Earth’s defense forces out at Pluto have been utterly decimated by the Gatlantean hordes. In exploring the wreckage, Kodia’s foot soldiers (that is, Kodai and one guy named Saito) come upon but one survivor: Commander Hijikata, who laments having not been able to go down with his ship. (This is a running thread.) Upon returning to Yamato’s bridge, and reporting the disaster back to Earth, Yamato is officially conscripted back into official service (so much mutiny plot), and Hijikata, as the ranking officer, is promoted over Kodai as Yamato’s commander.

Yamato then receives a transmission, which comes from our traditional per-entry nymph-like, androgynous female spirit. She, Teresa, takes on a visual appearance much like the Virgin Guadalupe, as she proposes a solution to the killer comet. Coordinates set, Yamato warps to her location –

– and into a Gatlantean ambush! Yamato thrashes through the space currents of the Sargasso space graveyard, as Zontar the space emperor of the White Comet Empire schemes in his throne room and – Look, I’m not exaggerating or saying anything weird. That’s actually the plot!


And so begins something I’m assured many Yamato fans look forward to the most: a space battle. These movies are rife with the things! I’m sad to say they don’t impress me none. Amongst other things, these battles are loooooong. Basically, I suspect the animators produced like an hour and a half of context-free missiles firing and spaceships exploding, then apportioned it out throughout the flick. Unearned pyrotechnics are not very exciting, and animation as a medium rather reduces the lizard-like awe you could otherwise feel from such Michael Bay uselessness.

Lessening the tension further, we also know Yamato must always win…even when the technologically superior Earth ships already fell to the same menace. It made sense when military genius Okita was in charge, but Hijikata is an unknown quantity with a significant major recent loss under his belt. Whatever…Yamato wins.


Then it’s down to the gravity-fortress planet Telezart (I at least understand the notion of a “planet”), where Teresa dwells. But the planet is defended, so…battle sequence! In what they call “variety,” this involves more dogfighting and less artillery. And because the anime giants working on the picture (with names which mean nothing to me, such as Ichitoku Tanahashi, Mr. Kogawa and Mr. Katsumata) wanted to spend some time animating tanks, well, it’s ground battle time. Each of these segments affords another 5 minutes or so taken from the runtime, along with the introduction (and subsequent death) of yet another Gatlantean head commander, each one with a “Z” name, as is the way in space opera.


It’s time for generic mysticism, anime style, as Kodai and his bestest buds behold Teresa floating in the center of an ice cave in the planet’s core, in all her nudery. She tells of her prayer (that is, message) to summon Kodai, he who most embodies the spirit of love…or whatever. It all sorta has the sense of New Agey profundity, while really being a calculated and shallow combination of the more aesthetically pleasing elements of world religions – just like actual New Age thought. Oh, and Teresa is anti-matter, so there’s that. But we do at least learn something very important about defeating the White Comet Empire – they cannot be defeated. Oh…kay then…

Zontar the almighty has a scheme to stop the marauding Yamato, which spits in the very laws of physics and sequel continuity. And made-up words. Warlord Dresler of Gamilas (nee Desler circa The Movie) shall seek his revenge against – Wait up! I thought D(r)esler died last time! I mean, he was on the planet Gamilas when it imploded, killing his whole race! So why…No matter. Revenge is a good, exciting storyline, and good drama somehow overrides a surfeit of logic.


So Dresler takes the Gatlantean flagship out to meet Yamato and – space battle! Yeah, you knew that one. The same format applies here as in all the battles: At first Yamato seems hopelessly outclassed, is bombed far beyond what it ought to be capable of withstanding (the thing dates from 1941, after all, not 2201), then Kodai “miraculously” happens upon a miracle solution, and crisis is averted…Okay, fine, it’s the same framework as in nearly every “Star Trek” episode I’ve seen…and just about every other space story of this sort…And regular war movies…And – Okay, it’s not a problem.

In the first portion of the battle, with Yamato losing, Dresler happens upon a hilarious scheme. He plans to destroy them with – the Dresler Cannon. The man named a Gatlantean weapon after himself, a non-Gatlantean! (It’s like something Zapp Brannigan would do.) But then Yamato warps – didn’t see that one, did ya? – and Dresler’s Dresler Cannon de-Dreslercizes his own forces! It’s remarkably funny, actually, but maybe it oughtn’t to be.

The Yamato rams Dresler’s battleship, and Kodai leads a team of space marines on ship-to-ship assault. Kodai and Dresler have a dramatic showdown, Dresler commenting “what a worthy foe you’ve become.” Ah, this is the moment that (somewhat) justifies Dresler’s improbable survival ‘til now. Despite Dresler’s taunting, Kodai holds his ground; Dresler drops down dying, already mortally wounded. In his dying moments, Dresler comments on how his life is satisfied, that he has more in common with the humans than the detestable Gatlanteans. Then Dresler’s aide shoots Yuki, who is also there; Dresler kills his own aid, although he thought he’d already done that, in a proper Darth Vader moment. So…Dresler gets a dramatic death scene, and Yuki is well on the way to hers, stretched out to a length Trinity would call unlikely.


There’s but a mere hour of runtime left, which is hardly enough to fit in all the battle footage remaining. Thus the White Comet Empire (WCE) itself stages an assault upon Earth, engaging all the non-Yamato battleships in our employ. First up, behold missiles, something called “space sonar,” and loads of mystical anime light. All Earth’s ships employ their ultimate Wave Motion Guns – no effect. Basically, the WCE is stronger than our WMGs, so we’re SOL.

But…“We still have Yamato!” Earth’s citizenry endlessly chant, in animation more limited than most PowerPoint presentations. Remember, Yamato stands for Japan, Earth’s only hope in the year 2201 A.D. And along it comes, as Kodai parses out Desler’s final words: The comet’s weakness is in its spiral. With enough energy for a single WMG shot, the universe’s collective fingers crossed, Yamato fires and – OMG, the WMG worked! The neutrino clouds of Gatlantis (yeah) disperse, only to reveal –


– the second stage of the boss fight. In case that hazy anime screenshot is unclear, we have a city the size of Ultra Manhattan, all upon a metal base that has been disguised as a comet half, just in case. Oh, and it has another impenetrable shield. Oh, and Yamato’s energy is depleting rapidly.

Gatlantis’ attacks are swift and decisive. In one fell swoop, we see the deaths of Hijikata, Dr. Sado, and roughly 50% of Yamato’s men. Yeah, this is one of those movies, the sort where everybody dies. And it’s this particular brave move that makes the final leg of Farewell to Space Battleship Yamato so moving, even while 70% of it remains the sort of space battle footage I have no use for.

What little power Yamato has remaining is used to enter the battle station’s lone, miniscule weakness – the first film influenced Star Wars, so it’s only right Star Wars should influence this. The comet’s interior power core resembles the Death Star II more than anything, so I guess Yamato went right back to influence future Star Wars entries. So in yet another action sequence (like the 15th), the core powering Gatlansis’ shield is destroyed. In the process, the cast is culled just a little bit more…let’s say Saito and Sabera die (though I think I’m getting that second name wrong).

So the baddies’ shield is down, but Yamato is completely without weaponry – oh, and Gatlantis has transformed yet again, making this one of the longest multi-stage final bosses I’ve ever se- You mean this isn’t a video game? Oh, right then.


Kodai, at a loss for the first time since his character arc in the original, seeks advice from an Okita memorial that is now on the bridge. Either Kodai’s havin’ some world-class hallucinations, or the movie expects us to swallow some truly non sequitur supernatural mumbo jumbo, for soon enough the memorial gains sentience. As our ersatz Obi-Wan, Okita cannot offer up any concrete advice (that can never be, oh no, not in film). Rather, Kodai is advised to “Use the Force.”…Hold up! I mean, “Put your faith in Yamato.” Oh, well, okay then. Okita’s vague speech continues, finally telling Kodai of his true secret weapon: Life. Sure, Okita means well, but he couldn’t get more generalized if he said Koda had “A Thing.”

But Kodai knows what must be done – A noble sacrifice. Echoing that noblest of all Japanese warriors, the kamikaze pilot, Kodai shall destroy Gatlantis with Yamato itself (with Teresa’s anti-matter powers). No more battle sequences for us, thank Astro-Boy, as the efficacy of this tactic is beyond question. Pleading his case most effectively, Kodai convinces Shima and the 20 or so other crew members still alive to abandon ship. Kodai alone, as captain, shall die with his vessel.


Kodai silently pilots Yamato, the dead Yuki propped up in the copilot’s seat. As his final moments of life play by, Kodai sees golden spirits of his departed mates before him on the bridge, the whole of Yamato’s essence with him. And Yuki is now alive, I guess, or whatever, allowing Kodai to express his undying love for her – this suicide mission shall be their wedding.

I connected the original back to Godzilla, as both are metaphorical salves to assuage Japan in light of her WWII defeat. Either my reference pool is shallow, or Farewell Battleship Yamato also has clear parallels to Godzilla – specifically the ending. A dirge-like chorus sings as Kodai enacts his sacrifice, ridding mankind of an unassailable villain at the cost of his own life and his own technology. Thus does Yamato vanish into the blackness of space, only to, at long last, erupt in an astounding light. Titles commemorate this, Yamato’s final voyage.

“Farewell to those who have come to love Yamato. As long as you live, Yamato will also live on. Whenever you think of Yamato, always remember that true happiness results from giving happiness to others.”

This ending, and even the promise of it inherent in the title, had Japanese audiences weeping in the aisles. The furor surrounding this, clearly the last Yamato ever, lent Farewell to Space Battleship Yamato a cultural status usually only enjoyed by…well, Star Wars. The summer of 1978 was declared “The Summer of Yamato,” and the sequel even managed to outperform its original, itself previously the reigning box office champ of Japan. Surely this was a remarkable phenomenon, made all the more notable because it was the end of the saga. Producer Yoshinobu Nishizaki had guaranteed the franchise’s end, and he had let it go out with dignity and warmth.

There’s only one problem with that. It sucks for future sequels. But if anyone can figure out how to follow up as solid an ending as this, it’s Japanese science fiction writers!


Related posts:
• No. 1 Space Battleship Yamato: The Movie (1977)
• No. 3 Space Battleship Yamato: The New Voyage (1979)
• No. 4 Be Forever Yamato (1980)
• No. 5 Final Yamato (1983)

Space Battleship Yamato, No. 1 - Space Battleship Yamato: The Movie (1977)

I don’t know a whole heck of a lot about anime, this I’ll admit right now. Though in my youth I managed to watch things like “Dragonball” before the “Z” got tossed in, I just had little interest in following the medium (or art form, or whatever you prefer) once it became a more vocal niche market in the western world. It’s just, overall, so freakishly overwhelming…as if attempting to watch every single franchise ever made isn’t. Ah, but there’s the overlap, and fortunately, Space Battleship Yamato is a relatively early and simple work of anime to start from. So watch me learn.

Here’s what I presume to know about anime, historically, with minimal reference to Wikipedia or whatever else: it’s Japanese animation. “Japanimation” always struck me as more clever, though harder to say and certainly more racist. The worldwide development of 20th century animation is a slow and steady process, with only a few localized hotbeds (the Disney and Warner Brothers studios, for instance) really doing a whole lot. I mean, have you ever actually seen Soviet cartooning? It ain’t a pretty sight. So by the 60s, I’d wager, Japan took on the animation bug.

Stylistically, anime’s unique though mightily varied style owes a huge lot to manga comics, and to historical forms of Japanese art. What’s more interesting to me, though, is that it’s essentially limited animation. I mean, it’s not fully animated, 24 frames-per-second. From its origins, I’d suspect this was a budgetary issue: if you’re making a “Speed Racer” cartoon or whatever, you do what you can. Curiously, this “limited” style has been preserved, allowing an emphasis on individual images perhaps more so than movement.

“Space Battleship Yamato” is surely limited in motion. But in a time where American audiences would connect that notion with recycled, underwhelming Hanna-Barbera productions, most anime does something far more impressive. It is more cinematic, surely, eschewing the presidium approach of cheap American cartoons, and likewise straying forth into more genres than mainstream U.S. cartoonists. Budgeted animation is good for this, as it affords subject matter a goliath like Disney would never touch.

So today’s anime introduction, “Space Battleship Yamato,” belongs in the sci-fi genre as much as it does anime (which isn’t really a genre, but a medium, despite some particular narrative forms it favors). Here we’re talking, initially, about a one-season science fiction TV series, running from 1974 to 1975. As conceived of by producer Yoshinobu Nishizaki, it would be “Lord of the Flies”…in space. The notion was retooled by Leiji Matsumoto, who instead came up with something that rather nicely predicts Star Wars and “Battlestar Galactica” (both of ‘em).

Now…television shows are not what this blog is about. However, the low-rated one-season “Yamato” gave way to cult-like popularity and, thus, to a movie. Released theatrically in basically no place but Japan, 1977’s Space Battleship Yamato: The Movie consists almost entirely of TV show footage, reassembled to form a movie-length arc. That the show had a long-running storyline certainly helps, and in an era before VCRs, rescreening “Yamato” on the big screen was fans’ only way of reliving the experience. And the movie was damnably popular, making more than the local release of Star Wars. Not too shabby!


Okay, so it’s 26 episodes condensed into 130 minutes, and it’s a science fiction concept! Methinks there’ll be a lot of notions to cram into The Movie. The opening fact of a narrator over still images confirms that. Bear with me. We learn it is now the year 2199, and the end is nearing for Earth. Okay…I’m with ya!...The oceans are gone, life is dead on the surface, and mankind has relocated to cities under the ground…Sure, sure, good…And the Planet Gamilas in the Sanzar System has waged war to – Hold up!...Okay, let’s just say evil aliens are plotting mankind’s destruction, and ignore sci-fi’s usual, awkward, nerdy names.

Most of the Solar System is under Gamilas’ control, and the last vestiges of Earth’s defense force are little match for them. Following a lengthy battle dominated by stylized explosions and those same Japanese sound effects which also indicate an unsheathed sword or a smiling face, Commander Okita orders retreat. This is after a lengthy Japanese consideration of duty, humiliation, and kamikazes. Captain Mamoru Kodai alone continues his reckless assault against the…er, Gamilans, I guess they’re called. So he’s dead.

Here’s something that’s already interesting, in spite of the dated animation and genre silliness. Sci-fi is a great format for parable, and I can see nothing else here but a futuristic variation on the events of World War II, as told from the Japanese perspective. And those wicked, Na’vi-blue humanoid Galimusians? Americans – Boo! Hiss! It’s like the original Godzilla, really, and likewise Space Battleship Yamato transcends its pulpy genre origins.

Let us now join Mamoru’s brother and fighter pilot, Susumu Kodai, along with teammate Shima, as they patrol Galimus-controlled Mars. Here a UFO crashes and, since it’s an anime, disgorges a beautiful, ethereal blonde alien chick. And because it’s an early anime, Kodai phases oddly through the nymph’s crashed ship in one of the strangest animation mistakes I’ve ever seen. The waif perishes, but passes on a capsule to our heroes.

They return to the dried-out husk of Earth, where talk currently concerns the one-year deadline until mankind’s extinction, thanks to the asteroid-based radiation Galimus is constantly pelting our planet with. Such dire, doom-laden setups put me in an introspective mood; it is for this that I appreciate this movie. Here Kodai and Shima open anime chick’s capsule, which comes bearing technobabble plot exposition…and plenty more crazy sci-fi words Spellcheck detests. The dead girl was Sasha. She comes bearing the Wave Motion Engine (WME), a device (both mechanical and plot) that shall help the Earthlings reach Sasha’s sister, not Malia but Stasha, on the Planet Iscandar, twin of Galimus, 148,000 light years from Earth in the Magellenic Cloud System. Upon undertaking this silly trek, Earth shall be rewarded with a device that can clean up the radiation and save the world. Why they could send a WME, and not this, I’m sure the TV series explains in greater detail.


Again ignoring the silly details, this is a great setup – a perilous, long journey to retrieve an artifact, then return it to rescue mankind. Like George Lucas around the same time, it seems the good folk behind Yamato were aware of the monomyth – which has grown ever so tiresome now.

Onto presumably the next episode: In a film’s rare moment devoted to characters rather than tech and spectacle, Kodai and Shima make the rash, youthful decision to go have an abridged action sequence with a Gamilarian (or whatever) fighter. Thus they crash onto Earth’s desiccated surface, stranded before the long-lost remains of the great battleship Yamato.

Okay, history sidetrack time, though it’s not like the movie itself doesn’t do likewise some 10 minutes later. Battleship Yamato was the greatest battleship ever designed, the crown jewel in Japan’s fleet during World War II. This beast of a boat even battled the evil, evil U.S. empire at Midway…about halfway through the war. In 1945, the behemoth left on a one-way suicide mission to Okinawa, Japan’s desperate final gambit; it did not succeed, but was sunk with all hands, the victim of can-do American flyboys.

The narrator informs us, filling in the edited-out gaps from the TV show, that it is indeed this historical Yamato which has been retrofitted into the titular craft: Space Battleship Yamato! With Commander Okita and his perpetual naval cap at the helm (and Kodai and Shima promoted to Combat and Navigation Chiefs in a single sentence of narration), Yamato shall set sail for outer space, the salvation of all humanity lying in the balance.


This is the franchise’s central conceit, and it’s a doozy! For two reasons (at least). One, this literalizes as purely as I’ve ever seen the sci-fi notion that space is the ocean. You know, Star Wars and all those other works treating space combat like some Pacific campaign from WWII? This series plays up the parallel, with a craft that actually fought those battles. (And cruises at something called “space knots,” which is never not hilarious.) Nail on the head, I’d say!

The other reason: This solidifies the WWII metaphor by quelling a nation’s psyche following great defeat. It is a second chance for Yamato, former symbol of Japan’s glory, serving an outer space parallel to its final Okinawa journey, with Earth subbing for Japan (a common tact in anime stories, I’d imagine). Of course, our Japanese heroes shall be victorious this time (spoiler). It’s nationalistic, sure, but no more so than Independence Day – and it gains favor for treating on real tragedy that was three decades old at the time, rather than a victorious conflict the to-be-U.S. fought in the 18th century. (Ugh, ID4!)

So begins Yamato’s symbolic journey across the heavens. What follows is the bulk of the TV series, as the Yamato encounters crisis after crisis as the Galiminans (or whatever) try to stop them. This is where individual episodes become apparent. Assume one crisis per episode, narrator employed to fill us in on what cannot be shown outright.

The first of these crises is the most exciting, because it’s novel, and because it ties in to Earth where the central plot and premise are still at their core. (Most of the crises to follow are rather self-contained, and could be dropped without jeopardizing the overall story.) This concerns the first test of Yamato’s warp drive (which was never actually deployed in WWII) – this is accompanied by a wild mound of techno-expo about the 3rd and 4th dimensions and the alignment of space and time. What it amounts to, on Yamato’s bridge interface at least, is successfully doing something Pong-like. Yamato’s gone from Midway to Midway Arcades. Oh, and warping produces wavy, trippy colors – but you knew that, since it’s 1970s sci-fi, post-2001.


Things then skip over whatever episodes exist concerning Mars. Suddenly Yamato is over the jungles of Jupiter (?!), where Okita deigns to test out their WMD WME for the first time. Take that, random hovering space island. (Okay, the Japanese have a far greater threshold for taking silly notions seriously than I do, and see no problem wedding individually outlandish sci-fi notions to their greater metaphorical narrative.)


Another mostly context-free crisis takes place, this one on Pluto (the good Yamato folks have absolutely no interest in Uranus – Hi-yo!). Kodai, who’s been playing Yamato’s Starbuck up ‘til now (that is, Katee Sackhoff, only not hot), leads a ground assault against the Gamimininian (or whatever) forces. And thus, no more radioactive asteroids shall be launched at Earth – with it goes any A-bomb symbolism.

Sailing further into the void of deep space, Yamato receives its final transmission from Earth. The brink of despair, Yamato mankind’s only hope, yadda yadda, the usual.

“Yamato will return!” Okita triumphantly proclaims through his gloriously bushy beard. This cues a non-diagetic male chorus to sing over-specific praises of the Yamato’s voyage, itself affording a montage of galactic sights that rather nicely glosses over several unwanted episodes.

(It occurs to me that the television show is almost certainly the better format for this tale of heroism and genocide. What I’m getting here is merely a taste – and a mis-paced, mis-edited taste – of an original concept. Still, plenty of the show’s apparent passion and drive filters through. All in all, this is a project I can respect more for its ideas than I can for the actual execution.)

Next crises: The Galmmnnmnmn Emperor Desler hatches his latest Yamato-sinking scheme – he’ll launch a ravenous nanospore of metal-eating gas. Yamato shall be trapped between the cloud and an Alpha star – it’s your old Scylla and Charybdis scenario, because all nautically-themed adventures have “The Odyssey” at their core. As usual, things look hopeless right up until the magical final solution, devised as always by Okita. But he’s falling sick, and thus it is up to Kodai to serve as Acting Commander – in a somewhat under-emphasized character arc, which I’m sure the show does more fully.

Oh, and Kodai’s also got himself a token romance – with Yamato’s resident Uhuru equivalent, Yuki Mori. This doesn’t really become an issue yet.


The next crisis occurs with clockwork: Yamato faces off against the majority of Galimatius’ (or whomever’s) armed forces, and General Domel [sneezes] Rommel. Wait, do Japanese WWII metaphors extend to Germany? No matter, Yamato alone is victorious, though this is the lengthiest of all the film’s space battles – as it displays the highest amount of animated spacecraft destruction. The producers know what fans want (the same basic nonsense Star Wars provided, but in cartoon form, and with a Japanophile bent). The battle centers around a ginormous (space) drill, which reminds me of the drill from Tomorrow Never Dies – Must I always connect things back to Bond?! Domel, in all his military genius, gives the drill an over-generous 15-minute explosive timer, allowing Shima (now the engineer – unless I cannot tell cartoon characters apart) ample opportunity to reprogram the weapon to counter and destroy Domel’s forces. I think I can spot the flaw in Domel’ strategy.

Okita holds a funeral for Yamato’s casualties. It’s like a normal burial at sea – but in space.

One more central crisis before we can reach Iscandar. Emperor Desler lures Yamato to Planet Gamilas, which resembles nothing so much as a whiffle ball, with intent to melt Yamato in the acid seas that make up Gamilas’ volcano-ridden second hollow layer beneath the surface. It’s sci-fi, Japanese-style! They have a particular sense for the ridiculous, don’t they? And luring your enemy into your home planet’s weakest spot? I don’t need Death Star plans to tell you that’s a fool idea. But as per usual, initially everything is turning up Desler, with Yamato twisting in the throes of a manmade (er, alienmade, really) storm. Missiles are launched. It’s another chance for the movie to go overboard with the FX footage, and even reuse cells doing sometimes quadruple duty. These are, for me, the least interesting moments in the film.

Finally, it is Okita (naturally) who proposes firing on Gamilas’ rich veins of volcanic ore. The Yamato so does, and the planet’s surface is beset by a chain reaction of volcanic eruptions – another excuse for the effects animators to re-earn their paychecks. (They have a yen for making yen.) In the face of disaster, Desler, so far your classic cackling villain, actually cackles in defeat. Let no one say the Emperor doesn’t have a sense of humor about his own race’s surprise extinction.


Sci-fi silliness having given way to genocide, the crew of the Yamato are overcome by what they’ve done. “A world has died.” “How can I face God now?” “Victory tastes like ashes.” Here’s where Space Battleship Yamato truly earns its right to explore WWII history in a sci-fi setting: What if the Japanese had bombed the U.S., effectively? It’s not a straight up question (that would be stupid), but it questions what victory is, even when both sides are fighting for their own survival. Somewhere in here there’s a consideration of MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction, that is, not the satirical magazine).

Villains defeated, and with, like, a whole half hour still to go, Yamato alights upon the sea planet Iscandar – several months overdue. Uh oh! Here they meet Queen Stasha, though it occurs to me (via the Internet) that her name is actually Starsha. If that’s the case, they ought to have let the subtitle guys know (I did watch it in Japanese, after all)…(Oh, and I think Desler’s name is really spelled…ah hell, the Internet cites like 3 or 4 different names. Who cares?)

No matter, Iscandar is an Edenic paradise, despite its depleted population and rising sea levels – Hey, it’s like the Maldives! Stasha (or Starsha, maybe) mistakes Yuki for her dead sister Sasha…Or was it Stasha (or Starsha, maybe) who died on Mars? Who cares, for all anime girls look the same, which is the precise source of Stasha’s (or Starsha’s, or Sasha’s) confusion here. That, or Space Battleship Yamato has suddenly gone all New Agey…That’s it! Clear-cut conflict gone, this ‘70s sci-fi goes the sub-Zardoz route (brr!) by allowing Iscandar to simply be strange. It must be noted, this is the one moment of the movie made originally for the screen; no TV episodes correspond to this nuttiness.


As it stands, the S-named Iscandanavian has a further surprise for our loyal Yamamites: Kodai’s brother, thought dead since the opening, has instead been recouping here 148,000 light years from where we last saw him, for contrived reasons. Cue the excessive sort of weeping Japanese cartoon characters are known for.

Kodai’s brother, Mamoru, is all set to leave with Yamato, only he’s fallen in love with S(t)a(r)sha too (or whatever her name is). It’s melodrama time! New Age imagery and melodrama…you’re kinda losin’ me on the back stretch here, Space Battleship Yamato. But in the end, Mamoru opts to stay with his unnamable bride. Kodai, putting altogether too fine a point on it, directly compares them to Adam and Eve. (For unexplained reasons, Yuki is now in a sling.)

The Yamato is set to return to Earth and – Hey wait, what about that device to remove Earth’s radiation? You know, the whole reason this trek was undertaken?...Sure, Miss S says, here it is, with the highly nutbar name of Cosmo-Cleaner D. I think I got some of that under my sink. Only…the Cosmo-Cleaner ain’t assembled yet (that’s why it didn’t warrant a C, B or A), so it’s up to the long-absent Shima. This is a rather unnecessary plot wrench, as he’ll have the thing ready anyway once Yamato has made the convenient warp jump all the way back to Earth.


Okita, who’s been on his death bed for the latter half of their hegira, has been holding out with the sole intent to see Earth again. He gets a touching deathbed scene, quite at odds with the dramatically suspicious Iscandar goings-on. Earth comes into view, and Okita dies an old man, clutching a photo of his family. It’s a touching moment, hampered only by the outrageously caricatured Dr. Sado character, who even refers to Okita’s illness as “space radiation sickness.”…Space, the final word modifier!

A montage depicts the crew’s celebration, with a naval song fully recapping the entire story with far greater efficiency than I can muster. The final shot is of Yamato nearing the still-brown Earth, as titles on screen (a common device throughout the flick) inform us that everything then turns out A-OK for humanity…And the Earth fades to blue.

Well, I’m of two minds about Space Battleship Yamato. I love the historical metaphor, and the treatment of Earth’s dying days, but I’m not so sure about the insane space battle stuff. I mean, it’s like there were two influences here: the same pulpy “Flash Gordon” type serials that inspired Star Wars, and the moody and serious literary science fiction which it as complete odds with that mode. To see both methods employed in one work is odd, and not wholly successful in my mind. But I suspect that’s the tonal mode of much anime. Intelligent and serious one minute, then silly and juvenile the next. Maybe that’s why some people like it. I sure as hell don’t know! But there’ll be plenty more time to get a handle on the medium.


Related posts:
• No. 2 Farewell to Space Battleship Yamato (1978)
• No. 3 Space Battleship Yamato: The New Voyage (1979)
• No. 4 Be Forever Yamato (1980)
• No. 5 Final Yamato (1983)

The Three Mesquiteers, Nos. 39 - 51 (1941 - 1943)

Moving on now through 1941, The Three Mesquiteers franchise has become a hotbed for actor switches so complex, the best I can do to help is direct you to a helpful graph on Wikipedia. Once again, the final “era” of the series is marked by one actor’s departure, and another’s arrival. For while Bob Steele and Rufe Davis remain, Robert Livingston’s second (or third) departure again meant Stony Brooke had to be recast. This was the start of –

THE TOM TYLER ERA


Tom Tyler did thirteen Mesquiteers, ushering the series all the way to its completion in 1943. Like most of the actors in this franchise, Tyler was a stalwart and dependable B-western star throughout the ‘30s. Like many of the best members of that august fraternity, Tyler’s image was employed to best use in John Ford’s Stagecoach – where Tyler costarred with former-Mesquiteer John Wayne. More interestingly, the man essentially invented filmed superheroes, being the first man in human history to look good in spandex tights. In 1941 he played Captain Marvel in the serial The Adventures of Captain Marvel (the first superhero movie ever), and was in 1943’s similar The Phantom. He also played one of Universal’s lesser mummies.

Still, top billing for the remainder of the Mesquiteers would go to Bob Steele, not Tyler. Tyler was a contract player, pure and simple, and used to this. If only superheroism was more prolific than cowboying back then…

And how many movies do I have to watch from the Tom Tyler and/or Bob Steel Era? None, zero, zilch, zip, nada, squat, bupkiss, belch, burp, fwoozloid. So once again I am limited to providing what little knowledge I can dredge up about the remaining entries. Enjoy!

Outlaws of Cherokee Trail (1941) – Well, all I can figure out about this one is the bad guy: generic, motiveless outlaw Lemar. He lives in the Cherokee Strip, where Rangers fear to tread, and bides his time by killing the jurors on his trial. Yeah, that’ll sway ‘em. One guesses the Mesquiteers come along in some capacity to stop this man.

Gauchos of El Dorado (1941) – This one sounds like the plot of a Johnny Cash song. The Mesquiteers rescue a man from the clutches of evil gauchos (of El Dorado), only for him to die in their collective arms anyway. His dying wish is that they take his money to his mother. Complications arise when she mistakes Tucson for her own dead son – whom I assume was named “Sue.”

West of Cimarron (1941) – We’ve thrice seen the Mesquiteer story where war veterans are kicked about by bad, bad, bad, bad men following the war, in The Three Mesquiteers and Oklahoma Renegades and Prairie Pioneers. Those concerned WWI, the Spanish-American War and the Mexican-American War. Now it’s the Civil War, perhaps because they are Time Lords. In the film’s cutesy colloquialism, it’s a conflict between carpetbaggers and bushwackers. Throw in a little late era Mesquiteer infiltration of the villainous gang, and you’ve got West of Cimarron.

(Interestingly, Cimarron is in New Mexico, while the movie takes place in Texas…decidedly not west of it. Of course, all these titles are pretty arbitrary.)

Code of the Outlaw (1942) – The Mesquiteers shoot it out with more robbers. Most of the gang escapes, but their leader is killed, and their loot remains hidden. The Mesquiteers then adopt the leader’s orphaned son, purely out of the charitable goodness of their hearts…that, and to learn where the loot is hidden. Then the gang returns to also ask the kid about the loot. But when they do it, it’s evil – as usual, an action’s lawfulness is determined by the color of your hat.

Raiders of the Range (1942) – An oil well is being constructed, and one businessman wants it built, while the other opposes it. I wonder which side of this issue the Mesquiteers will take? Well, westerns are often political allegories, and conservative allegories at that. So…Drill, baby, drill!

Westward Ho (1942) – When you rob a bank, you end up with money. But there’s a way to make even more! Simply frame some poor schmoe, then capture him for the reward money. If these villains were thinking more clearly, they’d go the Good the Bad and the Ugly route and save the guy from his own hanging, let the bounty grow larger, then turn him in again. But they do not do that. Instead, they frame Lullaby for their latest robbery, and are then surprised to find they’ve incited the wrath of the – drum roll please – Three Mesquiteers.

The Phantom Plainsmen (1942) – Things seem normal enough at first. The Mesquiteers are herding horses, and selling them to a business associate. They grow skeptical, though, when they find out he is selling the horses to the Third Freaking Reich! Pretty soon, the horse ranches of the Old West are crawling with Nazi agents, because apparently horses do not exist in Germany, and are essential to Hitler’s war machine.

That’s right, by 1942 every cinematic hero was battling Nazis! For the spies and detectives this made sense, but…westerns?

INTERMISSION – Again, for the final time, we get an actor switch. Boy, that’s something I’ve sure missed! Rufe Davis is out (contracts and all), and his replacement…? Well?...The one Mesquiteer who was also a Mouseketeer (and never a Musketeer, somehow). Of all the people in the world, they found the future MC of “The Mickey Mouse Club.”

[Strike chorus!]

Who’s the actor with the role of playing Lullaby?
J-I-M-M-I-E D-O-double-D.

Hey there, hi there, ho there! Aren’t you glad they cast this guy?
J-I-M-M-I-E D-O-double-D.

Jimmie Dodd! [Donald Duck!]
Jimmie Dodd! [Donald Duck!]
Forever let the Mesquiteers ride – ride – ride!

Of all the crazy things in the world! Here’s the guy who spearheaded the show which gave us Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears (and, er, Christina Aguilera), starring as the third-string hero of a 1940s B-western series.


Shadows on the Sage (1942) – We’ve seen this plot like three or four times already. The trio battles outlaws, whose leader looks exactly like a Mesquiteer. In the past it’s always been Stony, but now that Tucson’s actor is the lead, it’s Tucson. Really, the only difference here is it’s Bob Steele playing dual roles instead of Robert Livingston.

Valley of Hunted Men (1942) – Oh god, it’s Nazis again!

Let me get this one straight: It’s 1941 now (pretty far in the past for a 1942 movie), and the Nazis have escaped from a Canadian prison which may or may not have anything to do with Ilsa. And this time, it’s the Nazi who has the doppelganger – that man being a friend of a friend of the Mesquiteers. Can you see where this is going? The Nazi poses as a rancher, finds the Old West woefully lacking in Jews, and instead preys upon the local mad scientist who has developed a secret formula to extract rubber from rubber plants. SAY WHA’?! So…not only does every movie from 1942 – 1944 have to be about ze Germans, but they’re always, always after some scientist’s secret formula. To go by Hollywood, approximately 1,389 new chemical elements were discovered during this era.

Thundering Trails (1943) – The date is now 1871, and the Nazis are – I’m kidding, no film studio would be stupid enough to place Nazis in the 19th century…well, maybe Monogram.

Actually, it’s the Mafia, Old West-style. How that works is the old “paying for protection” gambit: Pay for police protection, otherwise the outlaws (who are also the police) will beat you up, and kill you if it’s a Wednesday.

The Mesquiteers stop this.

The Blocked Trail (1943) – The Mesquiteers are seeking a three-foot-high horse named Brilliant which can find a gold mine…I – wait – who – what – That don’t make no sense! It seems pretty clear at this point, the 49th entry, the series is running low on ideas.

Santa Fe Scouts (1943) – A squatters rights bill is about to pass, causing all the evil businessmen to come out of the woodwork to start squatting. The Mesquiteers, rather than doing squat, rally together to fight this evil scourge of – whatever bad thing is being done here. I guess the Mesquiteer people were politically opposed to squatters, or something, and could only propagandize against them by having businessmen murder random people for no reason. I hate it when this series has a message.

Riders of the Rio Grande (1943) – Bank robbery. Just…bank robbery. And the Mesquiteers have to stop the bank robbers. Yup!, the inspiration went bye-bye!

*************************************************************

With even the synopses revealing this franchise as languishing in Nazi-soaked first gear, it seems clear the thing is at an end. This was obvious to Republic, which chose to let their actors’ contracts expire – hence the last few entries were produced with the series’ conclusion already a foregone…conclusion.

On its own, this is not a very inspiring or notable franchise finishing. But The Three Mesquiteers had done what is was designed to do – it put Republic Pictures in a position of popular power, where they could produce pictures with success far in excess of the Mesquiteers. The Mesquiteers were to get Republic’s foot in the door; that done, the series could bow out. From now on, Republic could focus on their other western interests instead, with actors such as Roy Rogers and Wild Bill Elliott.

Of course, the B-western remained viable for the remainder of the B-era, through to the end of the 40s. The Three Mesquiteers were largely to thank for that. They’d help create the careers of many notable western stars, including none less than John Wayne. And multitudes of other western trio series arose from the Mesquiteers’ ashes – The Rough Riders, The Trail Blazers, The Range Busters. And at least one of these (The Range Busters) was practically a direct, semi-parallel continuation from The Three Mesquiteers. That one we’ll be visiting sooner rather than later.


Related posts:
• No. 1 The Three Mesquiteers (1936)
• No. 3 Roarin’ Lead (1936)
• No. 4 Riders of the Whistling Skull (1937)
• No. 5 Hit the Saddle (1937)
• No. 6 Gunsmoke Ranch (1937)
• No. 7 Come On, Cowboys! (1937)
• No. 8 Range Defenders (1937)
• No. 9 Heart of the Rockies (1937)
• No. 10 The Trigger Trio (1937)
• No. 13 Call of the Mesquiteers (1938)
• No. 14 Outlaws of Sonora (1938)
• No. 19 Santa Fe Stampede (1938)
• Nos. 29 – 38 (1940 – 1941)
• No. 35 Prairie Pioneers (1941)

The Three Mesquiteers, No. 35 - Prairie Pioneers (1941)

The Three Mesquiteers has always been a rather political series, using the “no gray area” moral authority granted to them by the B-western. And the positions it takes are often strangely specific – the sort of conclusions that would be easily contested in a logical medium. Consider the series has vilified Natives (Riders of the Whistling Skull), freaking animals (Heart of the Rockies), and godless cattlemen (too many entries to count). So when I realized that Prairie Pioneer concerned the Californian range conflict between noble American settlers and the Spanish dons, I greatly feared a staunchly anti-Spanish position. The movie does make feints in that direction, notably towards the beginning, but this is a much later Mesquiteer beast, self-aware and well-versed in the delicate political correctness of 1941. Indeed, so many actor switches after the last entry I saw, it only makes sense for things to have changed.

But first, let us consider those settlers, and follow the potentially opinion-forming, racist narrative an earlier Mesquiteer movie would have told. For not only are several Caucasian (and therefore moral) American settlers arrived in newly-stated California, but they’re even war vets – see the original Three Mesquiteers, as well as Oklahoma Renegages, and others I’ve probably forgotten. Per the Gold Rush time period, it’s the Mexican-American War they’ve returned from, and now they want land.


Never mind the land these “Americanos” choose to settle on is already owned, by the Ortega family of Spanish noblemen. These people are rightly concerned with preserving their estate, and seek diplomatic relations with the incoming settlers to discuss matters. Son Roberto Ortega (white guy Robert Kellard, future Lone Ranger – as seemingly all these late era Mesquiteer actors are) leads a band of vaqueros out to calmly address the issue with the settlers. But these Americans, backed with the unmistakable moral right Manifest Destiny has granted them, are readier to scrap than to listen, and respond to Roberto’s reasonable offers with a punch to the face.

Now, the settlers’ behavior would normally peg them as the villains – aggressive in temperament, intruding upon the existence of others. But consider the Three Mesquiteers, who are randomly here in California for ill-stated independent reasons, instantly defend the Americans, just because. Trained as I am by the means of sophistry employed by former Mesquiteers, I take this to mean the Spaniards are the bad guys – they’re ethnic, after all, and their hats are black, never mind that’s a historical accuracy.

Ah, but Prairie Pioneers is a little more complex than that. Remember, we completely skipped over the career of Duncan Reynaldo, a Hispanic performer taking the place of Ray Corrigan’s former Tucson Smith. Reynaldo is no longer around, but a likely respect towards Iberians remains. And Reynaldo’s replacement, also named Tucson Smith (but now Bob Steele) is the one here who maintains a level head re: Spain. He is pals with Roberto, and is able to talk combined sense into all other parties. So a potential film-wide conflict has been thankfully nipped in the bud, and I no longer have to worry about Stony Brooke’s potentially xenophobic opinions. (That Stony is played by Robert Livingston, the only Mesquiteer member from the older, less rational days, is appropriate. To give this film too much due, that might even be why he’s given the hateful opinions.)


To celebrate their newfound multiracial respect (California maintained hippy ideals even in 1848), the Ortegas invite the settlers to their hacienda for a fiesta. Maintaining an outdated representation of the Spanish, there is even hat dancing around the sombrero (ain’t that Mexican?) and singing “La Cucaracha” (ain’t that Mexican?), which is comically interrupted by a Chihuahua (wait, ain’t that Mexican?). Joining Roberto among the Ortegas is his father Don Miguel Ortega (white guy Guy D’Ennery – I mean, look at that name!) and sister Dolores Ortega (Esther Estrella – now she’s a Latina, meaning rowl!). So everything is going very swimmingly, Stony is starting his designated romance with Dolores, even if it is miscegenation (presumably a big 1941 Hays “No-no”), and everybody is laughing at the intentionally comic antics of Lullaby Joslin – Rufe Davis, a bland and fat man who’s at least resolved everything that was terrifying and off-putting about Max Terhune’s interpretation of the character. But where’s the conflict?

Don’t worry, for there’s a third party of characters involved (the settlers’ land disputes shall become a complete non-issue from here on out). And these are our baddies: local miners. Hydraulic miners, just as evil here as in Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider, led by standard dastardly businessman type Fields (Ken MacDonald). But the real villain is Don Carlos Montoya (white man Davison Clark), a so-called friend of the Ortegas. However, he’s a dreaded half-breed, the sinful result of a Spaniard and American interbreeding – What, you thought this film would be completely racism-free?! Ha! Montoya even gets an “Iago speech” outlining the reasons for his villainy – basically, because he’s Spanish, he hates Americans, and because he’s American, he hates Spanish, as is apparently only natural. He spends each night throttling himself.

Fields’ miners lust after the Ortega property, and aim to obtain it through the dastardliest dartardiness a dastard ever dastardized. They dress up as vaqueros – in an effect so poor, I didn’t even realize it until 10 minutes later (the disguise is basically The Man With No Name’s serape, which none of the vaqueros where). Anyway, a henchman “looks” like a Spaniard – at least to the belittling eyes of an American – and proceeds to commit pointless acts of violence against the settlers. Several men are killed and, for contrived reasons I haven’t the energy to get into, Roberto Ortega is found responsible.


Really, Roberto has been framed – yeah, every entry sees the framing of an innocent man – and the Three Mesquiteers decide to take his case because of a pure Colbertian feeling they have about everything. Of course, they’ll have to work fast, because Roberto is due to be executed by firing squad in one day’s time – yeah, there’s also always a time limit like this.

The first suspicious fact is just how Roberto was arrested – the local Spanish cavalry (which is yet a fourth party of interests in this surprisingly complex Mesquiteer) was tipped off to Roberto’s hiding place by an anonymous source. And with Don Miguel falling sick, the vile Montoya has taken charge of the Ortega estate – which he promptly announces shall be sold to Fields’ mine. Mwah hah hah!

To root out all these doings, the Mesquiteers question the local population of padres at the mission – What, a fifth party now?! Actually, I’m not even all sure what they have to do with anything.


Tucson resolves a piece of the puzzle by trailing Fields back to the mine – with a standard Mesquiteer lack of tact, he outright accuses Fields of ill doings when he (Tucson) is in no position to do anything about it. So Tucson narrowly escapes on horseback, in one of many action scenes which make up every Three Mesquiteer entry – though I’m sad to say the quality of the action is rather listless today…which does somewhat compliment the performances of Steele and Davis, if I must be honest.

Stony and Lullaby have worked out the other side of the puzzle, connecting Montoya back to Fields. This makes them all confident that they’ve sniffed out the necessary villains, yet it does no good in their efforts to get Roberto freed. (It also puts a damper on the romancing of Dolores Stony would surely rather be involved in.) Tonally, if not in terms of content, this is the darkest hour for the Mesquiteers, enlivened only by Lullaby’s running gag where he struggles to mount a horse – How’d no one think of doing that obvious B-western gag anytime before 1941?


With crowds gathering for Roberto’s noon execution, the Mesquiteers perform one final desperate mine examination. At last they discover the so-called vaquero outfits Fields has employed – and if you wonder what the only bit of exonerating evidence is still doing in the villain’s clutches, you haven’t normalized yourself to the peculiar illogic of The Three Mesquiteers. The mines shall make for a good enough shootout setting, so let’s get that underway. Stony and Tucson are holed up in the evidence shack, goons ready to dynamite them to kingdom come, when Lullaby gets his hands on the hydraulic pressure hose for a comic comeuppance.


Collecting up both the evidence and the confession-happy Goon #1, the Mesquiteers make a mad dash on horseback back to the pueblo, just as Roberto’s last rites are being read to him. They actually make a really good show of stretching out the execution suspense to the last bearable moment, making this legitimately exiting, even though we know the Mesquiteers will come through in time. This they do at the last possible moment, horses practically stampeding through the upraised rifles, shouting out accusations of the nearby Montoya and Fields. Both elderly men try to flee, but it does them little good. Both Stony and Tucson are capable stuntmen (Lullaby’s too busy mangling the Spanish language to be of any use), and they easily run the nogoodniks down. Roberto is freed, the villains are punished capitally off screen, and racial tolerance flourishes throughout California for the rest of days.

Prairie Pioneers is interesting enough, to me at least, in how it initially appears far less tolerant than it truly is. This may be fallout of having not seen the intermediate entries, making the contrast notable and striking. This does not grant Prairie Pioneers as much interest in the pure business of being a B-western. Stunt coordinator Yakima Canutt remained all throughout the series’ lifespan, but by now his best and brightest ideas were well in use elsewhere – Stagecoach for one. That means the action here is perfectly good, but never reaches the greatest heights of the earlier, rawer Mesquiteer movies. Credit goes to director Lester Orlebeck for doing what he can with these pieces – consider the suspense of the execution.

But The Three Mesquiteers live or die by their central trio. About Robert Livingston, I can offer up nothing but praise – he has a confidence and gravity far greater than what he previously brought to the Mesquiteer table, evidence of his interim as the Lone Ranger – See, everyone is the Lone Ranger!

Sadly, his costars are a different matter. They’re perfectly acceptable in their roles, but Bob Steele and Rufe Davis are little else. Tucson was never a particularly interesting role, so all Steele can do is look good while firing a pistol and riding a horse, without getting in Livingston’s way – this he does, while never reaching the heights of Ray Corrigan as a stuntman (I’m not a huge fan of Corrigan as an actor).

As for Davis, well, he’s dropped the absolute worst things about Max Terhune’s Lullaby – the hickish attitude, general misogyny, and disgusting puppet – but he’s brought little else. He’s like the fat guy they’d hire to fill in for John Candy, assuming John Candy had just died…No, I can do even better – he the replacement for Chris Farley! Or…whomever the de rigueur fat white man of choice is nowadays. But at least he’s inoffensive, and does nothing to upset the dramatic content of the A-story – and that’s something Terhune couldn’t claim, in even the best of his entries (Range Defenders).

But if we think back to the history of the Mesquiteers, we again consider them as the central jewel in Republic Pictures’ crown. And whither Republic, whither The Three Mesquiteers. War in Europe or no, the early 40s were hearty times for this gung-ho Poverty Row studio. The budgets were luxurious (without being anywhere near an A-level), the scripts…decent, and everything done with a level of competent professionalism. And that’s what Prairie Pioneers exudes (and, I’d imagine, the other late entries I haven’t seen). It’s sort of the 40s equivalent of a really OK off-season modern studio release, but that’s something.


Related posts:
• No. 1 The Three Mesquiteers (1936)
• No. 3 Roarin’ Lead (1936)
• No. 4 Riders of the Whistling Skull (1937)
• No. 5 Hit the Saddle (1937)
• No. 6 Gunsmoke Ranch (1937)
• No. 7 Come On, Cowboys! (1937)
• No. 8 Range Defenders (1937)
• No. 9 Heart of the Rockies (1937)
• No. 10 The Trigger Trio (1937)
• No. 13 Call of the Mesquiteers (1938)
• No. 14 Outlaws of Sonora (1938)
• No. 19 Santa Fe Stampede (1938)
• Nos. 29 – 38 (1940 – 1941)
• Nos. 39 – 51 (1941 – 1943)

Anna - Les Tuileries - Paris FW

Anna

" ... I am a Dancer.
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