THE BALLAD OF CABLE HOGUE, Warner Bros., 1970.
Dir. Sam Peckinpah, Perf. Jason Robards, Stella Stevens, David Warner.
Review by Dominic

Double-crossed by his wayfaring comrades, a parched Cable Hogue (Robards) is robbed of his remaining water and left for dead in the middle of nowhere. Days later, on his last legs and choking out dust and bad-tempered pleas to the Almighty, he staggers one foot into a spring. Not only will this unlikely find save his life but, as the only water-source for miles, rake him in one hell of a future from thirsty travelers. While zealously defending his property, he befriends a sly reverend, Joshua (Warner), another one of the lecherous, religious fools commonly featured in Peckinpah films, who informs him that he needs to register his find in the closest town. Once there he is captivated by a local prostitute, Hildy (Stevens)—her two most lucrative assets specifically—and lures her from her profession to live with him as his business venture “Cable Springs” attracts the interest of all manner of outsiders.

Perhaps the least tortured and self-loathing of Peckinpah’s pictures, Cable Hogue is a story of rugged individualism, hangdog determination and affable belligerence. Despite his reputation for bloodlust and aggression, even The Wild Bunch (1968) demonstrates that Peckinpah has never been a mirthless director. The narrative of Cable Hogue uses his earthy wit as its main fuel and contains some of the funniest lines in the director’s entire oeuvre. This greatly aids what is certainly the film’s standout element: Robards is the living, swearing, stink-breathing incarnation of Hogue, and even though his romantic subplot is dead in the water for the majority of its duration, he gives us a heart-warming and instantly classic portrait of a go-it-alone scallywag.

Cable Hogue came in massively over budget, and had almost no chance of recuperating its costs given its quiet brand of charisma and the conspicuous absence of what, at least in the public eye, were perceived to be Peckinpah’s strengths: agonizing, primeval displays of aggression and insecurity. Instead, the film’s main appeal lies in its affection for its protagonist and (for all the outward cynicism of Cable himself) its willingness to embrace the benevolence and folly of human experience.

Unfortunately the shaggy charm of Peckinpah’s film struggles to power it for the full duration, and despite coming in at a fairly tidy (by Peckinpah standards anyway) 121 minutes, Cable Hogue is noticeably overstretched. The viewer’s enthusiasm is also hindered by the occasional mismatching of the soundtrack with the emotional timbre of what is occurring on-screen. Most disengaging of all, however, is Cable’s demise: a daftly symbolic event that concludes the film on an intellectual and emotional downer. Nevertheless, Cable Hogue remains a warming and at least casually worthwhile experience, and one of Robards’s most memorable performances.

Note:
It is worth mentioning that Cable Hogue’s production did entail the mistreatment of a number of the animals intended for use in the film, of which the lizard detonated with a squib in its opening scene (not the only live animal Peckinpah ever exploded for a movie) is the most immediately apparent example. Peckinpah biographer David Weddle describes Sharon Peckinpah’s abandonment of the set of her father’s film in disgust, and those viewers inclined to avoid films on the principle of animal abuse will want to steer clear of this one themselves.