It's entirely possible that sending the audience out feeling lousy was intentional

A terrific literary drama and character piece that shows how the process of creating art can be seen differently by those doing it and those looking at it from the outside.

All of these films share one commonality, that being a kind of emotional center that humanizes a cast of monsters.

An old-fashioned movie made with new-fashioned finesse.

Solid James Colburn, Charles Bronson movie I'd give a 6.7. Very, very good. Surrounded by a great supporting cast including the legendary Strother Martin.Worth the watch.

In this excellent period piece, a clean shaven Charles Bronson has one of his best ever big screen roles as Chaney, a hard luck loner in Depression era America. He arrives in New Orleans by train and discovers that he can make money using his fists, by becoming a bare knuckled street fighter. He hooks up with a slick gambler named Speed (James Coburn), who arranges his bouts. Things go well for them for a while until Speeds' irresponsible way with money begins causing problems. Speeds' mobster associates lean on him to repay his debts, and a prominent, well dressed gambler named Gandil (Michael McGuire) agrees to foot the bill IF Chaney will take on Street (Nick Dimitri), a fighter from Chicago.This marked the directing debut for a young Walter Hill, who'd achieved some success in Hollywood as a screenwriter, writing or co-writing things such as "Hickey & Boggs", "The Getaway", and "The MacKintosh Man". Here Hill brings his talent for creating striking male milieus to the forefront, telling a story of struggling to survive during a bleak chapter in American history. With the assistance of a solid crew of professionals including editor Roger Spottiswoode, art director Trevor Williams, and director of photography Philip H. Lathrop, he captures on screen an incredible evocation of the N.O. of the 1930s. The music by Barry De Vorzon is wonderful. The fights are well choreographed and always feel very convincing; still, this isn't as violent as some reviews may lead you to believe.The acting is solid all the way down the line, with an assortment of familiar faces to back up the stars. Bronson was still a fine physical specimen in his 50s and delivers a typically low key performance; Coburn is great fun as the outgoing handler. Bronson once again acts opposite his real life spouse Jill Ireland, who plays a feisty love interest. Strother Martin is a delight as always as Coburns' cheery associate. Also appearing are Margaret Blye as Coburns' perky fiancée, Felice Orlandi and Bruce Glover as mobsters, Edward Walsh as the sleazy Pettibon, Robert Tessier as smiling fighter Jim Henry, Frank McRae as a heavy, and, in his film debut, an uncredited Brion James.This is compelling all the way and well worth a viewing for fans of action and drama, with a kick ass final fight between Chaney and Street that works even without music to accompany it. Recommended.Eight out of 10.

It's the Great Depression in New Orleans. Bronson arrives on a freight train with six dollars. Coburn discovers that Bronson has a punch that would penetrate 20 millimeters of steel and they make a lot of cash together participating in pick up fights, sustained only by bets.The fights are brutal. Two shirtless men batter each other until one is insensible. Anything goes in these mano a mano and pata a pata. It's all bare-knuckled fighting, as in a grade-school playground. You can kick an opponent, pull his hair, strangle him, break his back, knee him in the jewels, or ram his head against the wall.Strother Martin is always there as the dope-addicted ex medical student to treat your wounds and bandage you up. But this is Hollywood, not New Orleans in 1935. There's hardly a drop of blood. These guys are real savages, remorseless, and the worst Bronson winds up with is a rather becoming bruise on his temple -- and that only after the climactic fight against the best bare-knuckle fighter in the country, imported, like the gunslinger in "Shane", from elsewhere.If the settings weren't drab enough, with their greenish walls and peeling chintz wallpaper, and the overhead fan that doesn't work, and the spare and spindly furniture, a very portrait of the abandoned railway car I live in, the fights themselves are depressing. As a nation we seem to be turning into a society of cage fighters and air guitar contests. That's for the American man. The American woman can go on afternoon television and sob out her story of sexual abuse as a child. And of course we can all sit back and enjoy American Idol. Man, does our system of values need the services of the failed medical student, Strother Martin. Does he know anything about treating blood poisoning? It isn't the exercise of physical skill that's repulsive. I envy athletes and dancers for being able to do with their bodies things that I could never command mine to do. Jill Ireland, Bronson's whorish sometimes girl friend in the movie, was trained as a ballerina and I admire her for it.It's the objective of the writers and producers that are so repugnant. They're playing to an audience that simply wants to see two behemoths batter each other to the ground. That's the ENTERTAINMENT. It's as if some group of MBAs at Columbia Pictures got together and had a bright idea. Instead of having a story of good and evil with a sprinkling of fist fights, why not make the whole movie about fist fights? The fights themselves follow all the conventions. Bronson's opponents rarely connect. Their round house punches miss by a mile with a great whoosh, while Bronson almost always connects with a sound of braking pottery.If it weren't for that pandering, the movie might be pretty good. Bronson hardly has any lines. He's silent and wears an inscrutable smile. But some of the secondary characters are interesting. Coburn's facial features have never been more mobile. Jill Ireland is appealingly winsome. And there aren't any real villains. The organization that provides Bronson with opponents are men of their word, in a way that Coburn, for instance, isn't. (He recklessly gambles away the debt he owes them.) The period detail has a few anachronisms but is convincing enough, as is the wardrobe. And the ending isn't what the formula demands. Ireland finds another man, more dependable than Bronson, and hooks up with him. And Bronson, who drifted into town in a box car, drifts away into the night.

This great looking, rather downbeat slice-of-lowlife action picture shows us the grim, dusty Depression era in suitably unglamorous, bled out colors and starkly realistic sets. Everything seems faded, flaking paint, cracking, on the verge of breaking apart - much like America itself at the time. Charles Bronson drifts into New Orleans and joins the underground bare knuckle boxing scene. The laconic Bronson, who has about a hundred words of dialogue in the whole picture, hooks up with fight manager James Coburn, who talks about a hundred words a minute. The contrast between the two extends beyond the verbal - Coburn jangles about energetically, while Bronson is a study in stillness. No wasted motion, no baggage. You get the feeling he could tote his whole world around in one pocket. When Coburn tells him that he lost his fight contract gambling, Bronson looks at him and says one word: "Dumb." It's a stunning under-performance. Coburn is the rushing river and Bronson is a rock. Jill Ireland, Bronson's real-life wife and frequent co-star, appears as a pretty woman who wants more out of life than what the aging, drifting Bronson can offer. Their relationship and chemistry is wonderful, and sad as it quickly becomes obvious that whatever they might have together is temporary. Once again, as everything seems to in this picture, this resonates with the temporary and unstable nature that everything seemed to have during the Depression. It was a dark time, and the Depression colored everything around it, and the picture reflects this in all of its tiny details. Great period film-making, great dialogue and terrific performances all around.