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Thursday, February 10, 2011

A Confession

I ain't gonna lie.

For the past year or so I've been on a big western kick. Blame Clint Eastwood. It was watching Gran Torrino that got me to watch the Man with No Name trilogy again, which got me to watching The Wild Bunch again, which got me to watching everything by Sam Peckinpah and branching out from there, going backwards with a particular emphasis on the "revisionist" westerns from the 70s.

And all this time I've avoided John Wayne. The guy is only the biggest name in westerns, but look at where I'm coming from. John Wayne was dead before I turned 3, and even then, his best work dates to a time when my parents were 3. I know John Wayne from John Wayne impressions, "Well, Pilgrim," and all that. What's worse, I didn't want to know him. John Wayne? Cliche.

But such close-minded nonsense tends to fall away if you let it.

It's been a couple weeks now, but I finally watched The Searchers. And I fucking loved it.

My Netflix queue? It's now filled with John Wayne.

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