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James Dean’s final film, released in 1956 after his death, makes for a disappointing epitaph. The combination of director George Stevens and source novelist Edna Ferber, both given to expressions of overblown high seriousness, yields a long, slow, achingly self-important movie.
Rock Hudson is a cattle baron, Dean is a maverick rancher who strikes oil, and Liz Taylor is the woman they both love. The triangle plays out down the years – and feels like it – with Dean bizarrely portraying a middle age he never reached.
Compensations are Dimitri Tiomkin’s epic score and William Mellor’s widescreen lensing of the Texan landscapes.
Nosferatu's Bill Skarsgård was so happy to shed the Orlok character when filming wrapped: "It was an immense sense of relief"
This canceled Netflix fantasy series was one of the best shows of 2024 – and deserves a second chance
Warner Bros. is inexplicably delisting a bunch of games without warning, again, and devs are once again distraught: "We are heartbroken"
