A Western, adapted by Gilroy from his own novel, whose ideas are executed with an uncertainty that makes whole chunks of the film virtually unwatchable. After a premonition, Bronson sends his gang to their deaths while he passes the afternoon conning a rich widow (Ireland) into bed. Later, thinking he has died a heroic death, she turns the memorabilia of their relationship into a flourishing tourist industry; and when he finally turns up again (after an ignoble spell in jail), she safeguards the legend by ensuring that no one will heed his attempts to reclaim his identity. In its unfolding, the story becomes distinctly uncomfortable, an unhappy mixture of light romantic comedy and something altogether darker (after all, it begins with a nightmare and ends in madness). On top of this, there's the added torture of watching Bronson trying to struggle out of the acting straitjacket that he has worn for some years.