Thoughts on 3:10 to Yuma

I saw 3:10 to Yuma last night. I liked it. Russel Crowe, as outlaw/robber Ben Wade,put on a solid performance full of contagious charm and ruthless guile and Christian Bale, as Civil War amputee/ rancher Dan Evans, did an excellent job of portraying a man who was with struggle, both physically and emotionally. 3:10 to Yuma, which was filmed in New Mexico, is unlike some recent Civil War era films like Cold Mountain or Open Range in that there is not a lot of emphasis placed on the cinematography. However, the stark and rugged landscape lends itself quite nicely to the bleakness and desperation which lies within both leading men. While Wade is under capture throughout most of the movie and facing an immediate visit to Yuma prison Dan Evans struggles with a different kind of impending imprisonment: poverty. With the possible loss of his ranch looming over him Evans forces himself to be part of a posse of men who are to escort Wade to a train which will lead him to Yuma. Between the time of their initial visit and their interesting departure Evans and Wade form a connection that is not just based on doing what is deemed 'right' but being able to recognize it. Unlike his gang, there is a part of Wade which is very human, very aware of other men's struggles and pain and while he is consistently violent, it is this dichotomy of behavior which seems to capture the audiences attention and interest.

Choices. They are excreted through an endless vice named oppurtunity. Jake found sadness in the memory of lost encounters with women. The 45 year old Spanish woman working at the insurance agency past closing waltzed her way into his conscious smoothly asking
'Senor wold cha want some cafe.'
Coffe burned his throat but he didnt want to refuse anything from her.

Continued from Auguest 2 2007

With a sounding thud Igor jumped from his chair. He strode to the door expecting a UPS package of Pound Puppies or a life size canvas Skeletor. Instead Igor gazed down at a rosy cheeked dwarf. Dressed in his usual garb of flashy crimson, this tiny little man reminded Igor of a sparkling ruby or a humongous cherry Jolly Rancher. It was a close tie. As Igor stood dumbfounded with the cool breeze slapping him across the face Frank decided to take charge as he walked right into the house. Without skipping a beat he sat down at the kitchen table and began to explain the situation at hand.

-Gentle Sir, my name is Frank Le Carib otherwise known as Frank the Ferocious. Lovers of mine scream Francis. Tell your friends. You may wonder why I am here sitting before you, SO wonderfully dressed I may add! "

While Frank continued to ramble, fluttering his hands around like a flamboyant dictator, Igor scrambled for his thoughts. Franks bright dress was still stinging his eyes causing him to lose concentration and constantly blink. Quite aware of Igor's bewilderment but not exactly caring too much Frank decided to ditch the monologue after a few more verses.

-It has come to my knowledge, through the pipeline, that you need to rejoin the living. Eagerly waiting around for Pound Puppies to arrive is a silly, sad way to peddle through life. Your a grown man for goodness sakes! You should be out dancing at balls, wearing masks and drinking spritzes!"

Instantly a vision of Igor gleefully rolling around on his carpet with stuffed animals flashed into Frank's mind. Disgusted by the thought, especially since it may have been true, Igor violently removed his gloves. In a split second he was lashing out at Igor with quick snaps, the black leather stinging Igor's cheeks and left eye socket. Due to Frank's limp wrists the blows only evoked howls of laughter upon his victim yet the assault was enough to get Igor's attention. Lightly pushing Frank back into his chair Igor took a seat next to him. The leprechaun began to slow his breathing. A small smile emerged from his Joker like face. He was pleased to see Igor patiently waiting to hear more, like a preschooler pausing for refills on animal crackers.

-For my assault I apologize. It is just very vexing for me to find a man of your ability wasting time on such folly.

Deciding that he must explain Igor squeaked out,

-Those toys were to be gifts for my grandchildren. I ordered them three weeks ago for my youngest ones birthday but someone stole it.

This was not Franks first call on Igor, but it was the only one Igor knew about it. The dwarfs prior indignation partially stemmed from a visit he had made two weeks earlier. Although Frank was an official LIFE GUIDE he still had his vices, such as stealing and pain pills. And on a moon lit evening two weeks prior he stole off with those packages, Skeletor barely tied down to his Vespa. . Disappointed with himself he tried to shrug off his shame. And he did. Frank didn't cling tight to situations of that nature. Forgiveness was bestowed upon himself as easily as others. It was in his job description.

-Well, Igor that makes more sense yet those gifts will arrive whether you wait for them or not. In the meantime you must rise, shave, shower, clean your balls and get ready for an evening of fantasy and fun.

Caught off guard a little at the testicle comment, Igor was a bit excited at the prospect of venturing out. Now it wasn't fishing but it was better than Hungry Man's and drooling over Vanna White as she chases down a vowel. Anyways, Frank had his mind on a different kind of catch and it wasn't from the lake.

Comanches strike from the outside. Inevitable decimation lies at ahead yet you stand in presence. To focus on the future would be ridiculous but to deny it would be preposterous. So go ahead and be valiant for the day will come when you will face the natives and you may shit your pants. Or perhaps you won't. Maybe you will stand there with eyes vacant of expectation, collectively letting your fear flow right out through you.

Thank you all for the comments. I enjoy reading them. I also would appreciate any construtive criticism if anyone feels like giving it.

There was always enough time in a day for Igor to go fishing. After he had hauled out his skiff and attached it to his trucks trailer, he began the 45 minute journey to Emerson Lake. Fall fishing was his favorite time to be out on the water. There was that familiar crispness that awoke a calm yet uplifting spirit in him. With it's frosty breeze whipping across his face Emerson Lake was able to instill all the feelings of vivacity that Igor had thought were gone. Despite the loss of his longtime fishing buddy, Georgios, Igor had worked up the strength to continue on since his friends death seven years earlier. After Giorgios' passing a season of apathy descended upon his interests. Fishing had become synonymous with his friend and the very thought of pulling his skiff out from the side of his house never entered his mind. That was until he met Frederick the French Leprechaun. Frederick was not a real leprechaun. He would have to be Irish to be one yet he was tiny. Very tiny. At 4'6 and with a beret of soft orange this Frenchman was kind and sweeter to his fellow man than a chocolate eclair. Famous for his suits of shocking red and purple Frederick instantly became a hit in the quiet town of Postus. But Frederick did not suddenly appear in this quiet section of Ohio for social reasons. Through miniature radar he had learned of Igor's absence from Emerson Lake. In order to understand the emergence of Frederick you have to believe that in life there is order. Even chaos has its own chaotic order which rides itself out in waves of destruction until a gentle tide sways back in to restore flow. Frederick was one of those special people who restored balance to the lives of those who thought they lost their way. With a cross town ride on his scooter the Frenchman was knocking ferociously upon Igor's door on a cold morning in early October.

It was hard to feel sorry for Roman. Maybe it was hard to feel sorry for him once you got to know him. Looking at the young tike one got the impression that bad luck found his mother and lay in her womb for nine months. At the age of fifteen Roman's body resembled that of a small child rather than an adolescent. Yet despite having gangly legs, a concaved chest and pencil sized arms the boy drove forward in life with an inner fire that was matched by few. As an infant and baby his mother had held him every night soothing him to sleep with words of encourgemant and love. Born premature his body was slow to develop and he had trouble walking up until the age of two. After Roman was born Pilar never shed tears for her son. She had come to realize that this was would only validify thoughts of him being unusual or different, beliefs that would hinder her child in life. Instead she constantly bore into his conscious the ideology that man is what he thinks. These words always made Roman feel strong as he would gaze into his mothers eyes all the while thinking of himself as a man. And although he had a woman to inspire him it was a man who brought out Roman's sensitivity. Frank Iglesia would watch his neighbor struggle to stand up to ride his tricycle as a young boy. By placing his hands onto the ground Roman would push himself up then stutter step for balance before feeling comfortable enough to place himself on his steel chariot. From a distance Frank would look on with anger and wonder at this boy who kept moving. At times Mr. Iglesia would play catch with Roman using nerf balls soft and big enough for him to grab. As he encouraged Roman with every activity they shared Frank would feel a burning in his throat and at times he would walk away from because he was afraid to cry in front of him. Nancy would watch as Roman placed himself onto the grass and wait patiently for her husband to return moments later invigorated with a forced spirit. Roman always waited for Frank. No matter how long the middle aged man would cry in the bathroom, little Roman would watch his surroundings knowing that Frank would come out to play again. He never asked why Frank left so sporadically. Roman never felt the need to. He was quite aware of the different feelings he evoked in others and they were so varied that he had long ago given up trying to understand. Roman never minded the wait or the red eyes that greeted him with love and admiration.