The calculated absurdities and violent romanticism of this Johnny Guitar precursor (also scripted by Philip Yordan) were greeted with derision on the film's first appearance. It's set somewhere South of the Border, where bandidos, chests criss-crossed with cartridge belts, open fire on trucks laden with nitro-glycerine. Things are no less volatile back at the rancho, where Stanwyck can't have Cooper ('You're no good, Marina') and consoles herself with booze and a state of permanent fury, as a symbolic oil well pumps away outside her bedroom window. It's clear from the off that most of the characters will wind up killing one another. Inventive, unrestrained film-making, and another under-appreciated entertainment from the uneven but talented Fregonese.