Monte Hellman’s low-budget genre flick is the most unfriendly, stark, sweaty, ugly and ruthless 1960s vision of the Old West not directed by Sam Peckinpah or an Italian. There is no God in these sun-baked vistas. If there is one, He wants everybody dead. Everyone’s a sinner to be scorched in the desert sand. God’s too busy keeping a cruel sun blazing in the sky to answer any prayers. We see very few faces in this lean little production, and we don’t trust any of ’em. Even our protagonists aren’t on the same page. There’s Warren Oates, 38 years old and already classically weathered with eyes that have seen everything. He feels a responsibility to protect a twentysomething man-child, Will Hutchins, who munches candy, plays with toys, complains constantly and falls in lust with a mysterious pretty lady (Millie Perkins) who’s CLEARLY nothing but trouble. Her wide-brimmed hat is the least shady thing about her. She hires our heroes to guide and escort her to a far-off town. She won’t say why. She won’t reveal her name. Warren Oates understands right away that this is all BAD NEWS, but he goes along with it because he’s curious. Will Hutchins, meanwhile, is mostly fixated on the only woman we ever see in the entire film, DYING for the slightest touch of her soft skin and whiff of her long hair. He’s so entranced by estrogen that he’s blind to even the most blatant signs that he’s got a crush on a monster. The plot thickens when Jack Nicholson enters the picture, pre-fame, but playing maybe his greatest movie villain, a frosty young gun who’s all trigger finger and no heart, instantly commanding the screen and a much-needed ice cube in this movie’s heat wave. The offbeat conclusion (no spoilers) is simple if you’re sober. If you’re high though, it gives you plenty to ramble about all night. Everybody wins, except for these doomed characters.