Colorado Territory (1949)

Colorado Territory (1949) is a Raoul Walsh train-heist noir western remake of the director's own class act 1941 film noir High Sierra.

Colorado Territory is a fun-laced trawl through the mental badlands of the noirish west making live action commitment to many facets of the styles beloved of the era, both the noir, and the west, the male staples of the period.

Raoul Walsh's Colorado Territory (1949) is, yes here we are to say it for once and for all, my God it doth do stand as a testament to the director's ability to transmute his earlier noir creations into the stark, rugged aesthetic of the Western genre.

A remake of his own 1941 film High Sierra, Walsh's reworking transplants the same tragic themes of betrayal, doomed redemption, and existential choices into the unforgiving wilderness of the American West.

Joel McCrea’s portrayal of the outlaw Wes McQueen, coupled with the morally complex female characters—Colorado Carson (Virginia Mayo) and Julie Ann (Dorothy Malone)—weaves a tale that not only reflects the genre's quintessential elements but also interrogates the traditional boundaries of Western heroism.

Joel McCrea is a kind of pure hero, the chubby-cheek glory of the earlier Hitchcock film Foreign Correspondent, and we are to accept here that he is a kind of outlaw, one we can both fear and sympathise with as in the earlier detail displayed by Humphrey Bogart who is both good and bad and bad and good and can be a villain of the rightly loveable kind, fulsome for noir.

Colorado Territory is an exploration of the doomed antihero, a man whose desire for redemption is continuously thwarted by his own past and the malevolent forces around him. As with its predecessor High Sierra, the film follows McQueen, a hardened outlaw who dreams of escaping his criminal past and establishing a life of respectability.

Yet, his plans are soon derailed when he is coerced into one final heist. The film’s stark noir undertones are woven through the tense, unpredictable narrative. McQueen, much like Humphrey Bogart's Roy Earle in High Sierra, is caught in a relentless struggle to escape his past, only to find that the very decisions he makes lead him to an inevitable and tragic end.

The concept of the "noir western" blends two seemingly contradictory genres: the bright, expansive landscapes of the traditional western and the dark, claustrophobic worlds of film noir. While westerns typically feature virtuous heroes and a sense of national progress, noir films are defined by their morally ambiguous characters and pessimistic worldviews.

However, in the mid-1940s, these elements fused to create a new, distinct sub-genre that would leave a lasting mark on cinema.

Informed by the grim outlook of post-World War II society and influenced by expressionistic films of the 1920s and 1930s hard-boiled crime fiction, noir-westerns introduced greater psychological complexity, moral ambiguity, and darker lighting techniques.

Directors like Budd Boetticher, Anthony Mann, and Raoul Walsh pioneered this blend, taking the familiar western genre and adding layers of emotional depth and moral ambiguity. These directors combined the open spaces of the western frontier with the tense, shadowy atmosphere typical of film noir, creating a new vision of the American West—one that mirrored the uncertain and disillusioned mood of the post-war era.

During the "Golden Age of Westerns" in the 1950s, the noir-western stood alongside traditional westerns, enriching the genre with more complex storytelling. Films like Colorado Territory (1949), a remake of Walsh's High Sierra (1941), exemplify this shift. The range of noir-westerns is impressive, including minimalist films like Boetticher’s The Tall T (1957) and the eccentric iconoclasm of Sam Fuller’s Forty Guns (1957).

Even lesser-known films such as Man of the West (1958) and Day of the Outlaw (1959) stand out for their high quality. Unfortunately, westerns, especially noir-westerns, were often overlooked by major awards, which diminished their recognition despite their artistic merits.

The noir-western is a niche that has been explored in various ways, though it remains underexamined compared to the individual genres of film noir or the western. Scholars and cinephiles have briefly noted the connection, but few have focused exclusively on the noir-western.

Books like Jim Kitses’ Horizons West and Ride, Boldly Ride by Mary Lea Bandy and Kevin Stoehr touch on these films but cover the broader spectrum of westerns. We instead do aim to explore the specific convergence of noir and western, offering a more detailed analysis of the directors who defined the noir-western form.

Each director contributed a personal vision to the genre, enriching the narrative landscape of the noir-western. These films were often complex in their portrayal of flawed protagonists, illustrating the eternal conflict between idealistic aspirations and the harsh realities of the world.

For instance, Colorado Territory uses the story of a bandit trying to escape his past to depict a tragic journey of doomed aspiration. The character of Wes McQueen, portrayed by Joel McCrea, is emblematic of the noir-western anti-hero: a man trying to escape the violent past that has defined him.

His romantic involvement with the character of Colorado (Virginia Mayo), a woman as complicated as he is, amplifies the film's themes of betrayal and doomed love.

Directors like Raoul Walsh, who worked across multiple genres, were instrumental in developing these films, using their familiarity with noir techniques to enhance the western. Walsh’s contributions to the genre helped shape a sub-genre that would influence both westerns and other genres in the decades to follow.

It’s notable that many of the directors involved in noir-westerns, such as André de Toth and Allan Dwan, are less well-known, despite their significant impact on cinema. Their films offer a fascinating look at a period of transition in Hollywood, where traditional genre boundaries were increasingly blurred.

By examining the contributions of these directors, the book encourages a deeper appreciation of the noir-western sub-genre and its lasting influence on American cinema. While these films have often been relegated to the margins, they stand as an important chapter in the evolution of the western, enriching the genre with psychological depth, moral complexity, and a darker, more introspective view of the American frontier.

The film's strength lies in Walsh's ability to marry film noir's thematic darkness with the expansive landscapes of the Western genre. The craggy cliffs, vast desert expanses, and abandoned pueblos in the American Southwest serve as more than mere backdrops; they become integral characters in the narrative, reflecting the harshness of McQueen’s existential struggle.

Cinematographer Sid Hickox’s crisp black-and-white photography captures these vast, oppressive landscapes with an artistry that enhances the film’s bleak emotional landscape. The Western setting amplifies the sense of isolation that McQueen and Colorado Carson (Virginia Mayo) face.

Walsh's mastery of both the narrative and visual elements allows him to transform a story about a criminal’s last heist into a compelling meditation on human fallibility, loyalty, and the inescapable pull of fate.

The plot itself, though derivative of High Sierra, stands on its own as an exceptional reworking of the classic tale. Wes McQueen's escape from prison, his complex relationships with his criminal associates (Reno and Duke), and his interactions with two very different women—Colorado, the fiery and tough dance-hall girl, and Julie Ann, the seemingly pure and naive daughter of a farmer—form the crux of the narrative.

McQueen’s personal conflict between these two women—one who embodies the ideals of love and devotion, the other who represents the harsh, unapologetic reality of his outlaw existence—adds layers of moral ambiguity to the otherwise straightforward heist story, which rode roughshod across the lobbies of the states with the following class-act directions to emotional engagement as such:

A mighty, memorable new adventure hurtling out of the heroic vastness of Colorado Territory.
Here their love brings them ... a man with a price on his head and a girl with a price on her kisses !
A Mighty New Warner Bros. Adventure!

From a feminist perspective, the portrayal of women in Colorado Territory warrants critical scrutiny. Virginia Mayo’s character, Colorado, stands as a defiant symbol of the complex intersection of femininity and agency in the Western genre.

While she may initially seem like just another femme fatale, Walsh allows her character to evolve beyond the typical male gaze. Colorado is not simply the object of McQueen’s affection; she is a woman of strength, loyalty, and determination. In the film’s explosive finale, where she defends McQueen against the advancing posse, Colorado’s defiance in the face of imminent death reflects a raw, tragic agency that defies conventional Western gender norms.

On the other hand, Julie Ann, portrayed by Dorothy Malone, represents the archetype of the "good girl"—a trope often used in the Western genre to embody innocence and domesticity.

However, her character's moral wavering, particularly when she contemplates betraying McQueen for the reward money, undermines the purity traditionally associated with this role. The tension between Julie Ann’s perceived moral superiority and Colorado’s morally ambiguous strength serves as a narrative device to highlight the complexities of love, loyalty, and betrayal in a world where survival often demands difficult choices.

It is good to recognize that Colorado Territory is not merely a Western but a noir Western, a hybrid genre that blends the moral ambiguity and fatalism of film noir with the rugged individualism of the Western. The characters in Colorado Territory are not bound by the simplistic codes of honor typically found in traditional Westerns.

McQueen, much like the antiheroes of classic noir, is a man caught between his criminal instincts and his desire for a fresh start. The morally complex women in his life—Colorado and Julie Ann—are not mere plot devices but active participants in the moral and existential dilemmas McQueen faces.

Walsh’s direction embraces the noir tradition, where good and evil are not clearly delineated but are instead fluid, subject to the circumstances and choices that define the characters.

The film’s grim tone and the ever-present sense of doom are underscored by the performances, particularly McCrea’s subdued portrayal of McQueen. While McCrea is known for his portrayals of upstanding characters, his turn as McQueen presents a man who is not entirely comfortable in his own skin, torn between his desire to escape his past and the violent world he is inevitably drawn back into.

McCrea’s laconic style and moral conflict imbue McQueen with a tragic nobility, making him a classic noir protagonist who is as much a victim of circumstance as he is a perpetrator of his own downfall.

The film’s ending, as in High Sierra, is both tragic and poetic. McQueen and Colorado, having defied the law and survived numerous betrayals, ultimately meet their demise in a climactic shootout. Their deaths—holding hands in the face of a violent, uncaring world—cement the film’s thematic preoccupation with the futility of escape and the inevitability of death.

In a final, bitter irony, the monk at the film’s conclusion remarks that the couple’s tragic end has brought life to the abandoned mission. This religious undertone, suggesting that death may lead to renewal, introduces a layer of complexity to the film's otherwise bleak perspective on life and death.

"You Can’t Bust Out of What You Are”

Raoul Walsh’s Colorado Territory (1949) is a fascinating exploration of the futility of attempting to escape one’s past. This noir western, which draws from Walsh's earlier gangster classic High Sierra (1941), is a narrative about the inescapable nature of one's identity.

The film interrogates the limitations of redemption and the inevitable pull of a troubled past. In its bleak meditation on fate and morality, Colorado Territory becomes a quintessential example of the genre, blending the existential despair of noir with the hard-edged realism of the Western.

Walsh’s preoccupation with the inescapable consequences of one's choices is a hallmark of his directorial style, one that he would continue to refine across a variety of genres. While High Sierra explores similar themes, it is within Colorado Territory that these motifs reach their full expression, unshackled by the trappings of the gangster film.

This film represents a convergence of two seemingly disparate genres—the noir and the Western—and in doing so, expands the possibilities of storytelling within both. The narrative of Colorado Territory centers on the character of Wes McQueen (Joel McCrea), a notorious outlaw seeking redemption, but who is ultimately doomed by the very nature of his identity.

This tension between aspiration and inevitable failure is key to understanding the film’s tragic trajectory.

The opening sequence of Colorado Territory is a cinematic statement on the themes of isolation and doom that pervade the entire film. As the opening credits roll, we are presented with massive Southwestern rock formations, monumental in their stillness and overwhelming presence.

These landscapes are not mere settings; they are symbolic of the characters’ internal struggles, silent and immutable. The camera lingers on these barren, deathly terrains, which ultimately resonate with the metaphor of tombstones.

The most potent image among these is the Canyon del Muerto, or the Canyon of Death, which foreshadows the film’s inevitable conclusion. In this land, where the echoes of past transgressions resonate, the characters are trapped—literally and figuratively—by their histories.

The American western film genre has long been entwined with the mythology of expansion, conquest, and the notion of Manifest Destiny. In films like The Big Trail (1930), the depiction of the western frontier explores the intricate relationship between land, ownership, and identity.

While the film presents an idealized vision of rugged individualism and pioneer spirit, it also subtly critiques the assumptions of entitlement and conquest that underpinned American expansionism, notably the displacement of Native Americans and the glorification of agricultural labour.

The central theme of The Big Trail revolves around the settlers’ quest for a fertile, empty land to claim as their own, embodying the principle of "first in time, first in right" — a legal justification rooted in the idea that the first to use and improve the land gains ownership.

The emigrants in the film venture westward to claim this untouched land, despite the rugged challenges they face. The film’s visuals underscore the vast, empty spaces of the American landscape, with expansive shots of wagons winding through valleys and deserts, symbolizing the settlers' journey into an unknown territory they believe is rightfully theirs to claim.

However, this representation of Manifest Destiny is fraught with contradictions. The land they seek to possess is not uninhabited. Native Americans, who had lived on these lands for centuries, are cast as an obstacle to the settlers’ progress, often depicted in a somewhat ambivalent light.

Coleman, despite his professed friendship with Native Americans, ultimately participates in their removal from the land, reflecting the historical reality of westward expansion. This theme of ownership is complicated further when the settlers encounter miners who hold a different view of land use, as seen in films like Gold Is Where You Find It (1938), where farmers and miners clash over the environment's exploitation. While mining is presented as a transitory, exploitative use of land, farming is idealized as the "honest" means of acquiring property, rooted in labor and cultivation.

The film also critiques the idealization of farmers and the labor of farming, a paradox deeply embedded in American myth. The farmers in The Big Trail are lauded for their perseverance on the trail, but once they reach their destination, the film glosses over the reality of actual farming.

Jefferson’s vision of the yeoman farmer as the backbone of democracy, although romanticized in American thought, fails to capture the difficulties of sustaining a farm. This contradiction between admiration for the farmer and avoidance of farm labor is a persistent motif in western films.

The land, once "improved" by cultivation, is seen as valuable and rightful for ownership, aligning with Jeffersonian ideals that farming, not mining or cattle ranching, is the true use of the land.

The larger political narrative embedded in The Big Trail echoes the Jacksonian era's vision of leadership, where strength and intuition are prioritized over formal education or democratic processes. Breck Coleman, much like Andrew Jackson, emerges as the natural leader due to his physical toughness and experience with the wilderness, not because of any official role or community agreement.

This reinforces a vision of leadership that values raw courage and self-reliance, mirroring Jackson's own populist approach to governance. In the film, this notion of "one man with courage makes a majority" encapsulates the film's political philosophy, which presents individualism and strength as the true foundations of democracy, even at the expense of formal democratic processes.

Furthermore, the Western genre, while ostensibly celebrating small-community democracy, often redefines it in terms of a "natural aristocracy." Characters like Breck Coleman represent the archetype of the rugged, self-made leader who rises above the collective decisions of the community.

This redefinition of democracy, as seen in The Big Trail, critiques the complexities of participatory governance and instead elevates the solitary hero who leads through force and will. This ideal is further reflected in the later John Ford films such as The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), where individualism, albeit with a Jeffersonian veneer, clashes with the democratic ideals that the Western genre simultaneously upholds and subverts.

In these films, democracy is often redefined to fit the narrative of the lone hero whose actions—whether they be physical or moral—shape the course of events. The Western, in its exploration of the individual versus the community, often critiques the practical realities of democratic systems.

It suggests that true democracy, as portrayed in the genre, may require the presence of a strong, sometimes authoritarian figure whose authority supersedes collective decision-making. This is especially evident in Stagecoach (1939), another Ford film, where the individual courage of the characters trumps the more conventional democratic systems of law and governance.

The Big Trail also addresses the contradictory impulses of American expansionism and the cultural myth of Manifest Destiny. The settlers in the film are portrayed as pioneers of freedom and opportunity, yet their success is based on the dispossession and displacement of Native Americans.

This tension between the ideal of the self-made man and the violent reality of territorial acquisition is central to the genre. The film highlights the moral ambiguity inherent in the narrative of American progress, where the "empty" land is not truly vacant, and the indigenous populations' presence is systematically erased to make way for the settlers.

The Western, in all its iterations, grapples with these contradictions: the celebration of individual strength and the paradox of land ownership, the romanticism of farming versus the exploitation of resources, and the glorification of freedom and the subjugation of others.

Through characters like Breck Coleman, the Western genre suggests that the pursuit of manifest destiny is both a noble and deeply flawed enterprise. It champions the vision of American expansion but leaves unresolved the moral and ethical costs of this expansion, making the Western a complex and often contradictory exploration of American identity and values.

Ultimately, The Big Trail and its ilk reflect the contradictions that permeate the American mythos: the tension between individualism and communal identity, between the ideal of democracy and the reality of authoritarian leadership, and between the myth of a land to be claimed and the violent reality of conquest.

These films offer a lens through which we can critically examine the foundational narratives of American history, exposing the uncomfortable truths behind the myths that have shaped the national consciousness. Through their portrayal of land, ownership, and leadership, Westerns like The Big Trail offer a complex, often troubling vision of the American frontier.

Wes McQueen, a man defined by his criminal past, finds himself torn between the desire to go straight and the compulsion to return to a life of crime. His escape from prison is engineered by his old friend Dave Rickard (Basil Ruysdael), who convinces Wes to join him in one final heist.

However, from the outset, it is clear that Wes is reluctant to return to the life that once defined him. “You wouldn’t last long being cut off from the herd,” one of Dave’s operatives warns him, suggesting that McQueen is irreparably marked by his past.

The term “branded clear to the bone” serves as a stark reminder that, for McQueen, escaping his past is a futile endeavor. This dialogue encapsulates the core conflict of the film: no matter how hard one tries to change, one’s nature—shaped by past experiences and choices—remains inescapable.

As the film progresses, Wes’s interactions with two women, Julie Ann (Dorothy Malone) and Colorado (Virginia Mayo), complicate his attempts at redemption. Julie Ann, the daughter of a rancher, represents the possibility of a future unmarred by crime.

She is the “good girl,” the one whom Wes envisions as the means by which he can begin a new life. However, his attraction to her is not only driven by her qualities but also by her physical resemblance to a long-dead love, Martha. Julie Ann, in turn, embodies the idealized notion of a fresh start, a fantasy that McQueen clings to despite the harsh realities of his situation.

While Julie Ann symbolizes the unattainable purity Wes desires, Colorado represents a far more complex and grounded reality. A half-Native American woman with a checkered past, Colorado is a product of both the white and Native American worlds, yet she is not truly accepted by either.

She is, in a sense, an outsider, much like Wes himself. In contrast to Julie Ann, who dreams of a life of respectability, Colorado is acutely aware of the harsh limitations of their circumstances. “You can bust out of jails or maybe mud holes like I was in,” she tells Wes. “But you can’t bust out of what you are.” This line encapsulates the essence of the film’s philosophy: no matter how hard one tries, the past cannot be outrun, and self-delusion is an inescapable trap.

Her acceptance of this reality, however painful, makes her a more pragmatic and self-aware figure than Wes, whose idealism and refusal to confront his true nature lead him down a doomed path.

Colorado's devotion to Wes is not born out of naïveté but a deep understanding of his true nature. She recognizes that, despite his outward resistance, he is ultimately incapable of escaping his past. She loves him not for his dreams of redemption but for his courage, strength, and the integrity he retains amidst his moral flaws.

Colorado’s love for Wes is grounded in a realistic assessment of both their circumstances, and it is this pragmatic loyalty that sets her apart from the idealized love Wes believes he can achieve with Julie Ann.

As the plot unfolds, betrayal becomes an inescapable theme. Wes’s former associates, Reno (John Archer) and Duke (James Mitchell), attempt to double-cross him during the train robbery. They are ultimately betrayed by a train conductor who hopes to claim the reward for turning them in.

In a stunning act of loyalty, Colorado intervenes, ensuring that Wes escapes with the money. But their escape is short-lived. The inevitable pursuit by the law, personified by the unrelenting U.S. Marshal (Morris Ankrum), represents the societal forces that continue to haunt Wes, forcing him back into a life of crime despite his best efforts to break free.

One of the most striking aspects of Colorado Territory is the subtle manner in which the script treats betrayal. It is a theme that permeates every aspect of the story. Julie Ann, initially the object of Wes’s affection, betrays him when she attempts to turn him over to the law for the reward money.

This act of treachery underscores her true role in Wes’s life: not as the idealized woman of his dreams, but as the false love who represents a fantasy that cannot withstand the harsh realities of their situation. Colorado, in stark contrast, remains steadfast in her loyalty, choosing to die with Wes rather than live without him.

Her decision to stand by Wes, even in the face of certain death, is a testament to her understanding of his true nature and her acceptance of their shared fate.

The film’s tragic ending is a culmination of the themes that permeate its narrative. As Wes and Colorado take refuge in the ghost town of Todos Santos, their brief moment of happiness is shattered when they realize that they have been spotted by the posse.

Wes’s moment of epiphany comes when he acknowledges that they are “a couple of fools in a dead village, dreaming about something that’ll probably never happen.” With their fate sealed, Wes and Colorado make one final attempt to escape, only to be gunned down in a hail of bullets. Their deaths, while tragic, are not surprising. The inevitability of their fate is a reflection of the film’s exploration of the inescapability of one’s past and the limits of self-determination.

The final image of Wes and Colorado, holding hands as they lie dead in the dust, is one of the most powerful in noir cinema. It encapsulates the film’s central theme: that in a world governed by fate, even love cannot offer salvation.

The harshness of their deaths—murdered not by the law, but by the very forces of betrayal and disillusionment that defined their lives—speaks to the ultimate futility of trying to escape one's past.

Colorado Territory is maybe we might find if we look hard enough, more than just a remake of High Sierra; it is an exploration of the futility of escape and the inescapable grip of one's past. Through the characters of Wes and Colorado, the film presents a poignant meditation on the limits of self-determination and the inescapable pull of history.

Walsh, working within the framework of the Western genre, infuses the narrative with the bleakness and fatalism of noir, creating a film that is both a tribute to the genre’s conventions and a subversion of its expectations.

The performances of Joel McCrea and Virginia Mayo are exceptional, with McCrea’s portrayal of Wes capturing the complexity of a man torn between his criminal instincts and his yearning for redemption. Mayo’s performance as Colorado, on the other hand, elevates the character into one of the most compelling and tragic figures in noir cinema.

Together, they embody the tragic inevitability that defines Colorado Territory, a film that surpasses its predecessor in both emotional depth and thematic resonance.

Colorado Territory is an exceptional reimagining of High Sierra, transcending its status as a mere remake to become a poignant meditation on the complexities of morality, redemption, and fate. Walsh’s direction, combined with strong performances from McCrea, Mayo, and Malone, elevates the film beyond the confines of its genre.

The interplay of Western and noir elements creates a unique cinematic experience that continues to resonate with audiences, offering a narrative that is as much about the human condition as it is about outlaws, heists, and betrayal.

The film’s feminist undercurrents, the morally ambiguous characters, and the existential dilemmas faced by its protagonists ensure that Colorado Territory (1949) remains a standout work in both the Western and noir styles.

Colorado Territory (1949)

Directed by Raoul Walsh