The End of the Middlebrow Movie

“I’m your Huckleberry,” murmurs Doc Holliday—pale, sweaty, tubercular, yet somehow still a portrait of virility. “We started a game we never got to finish.” I know how this ends, but I’m still electrified. “Say when.” And when the last pistol shot fades, the silence lands like an elegy. Not just for Johnny Ringo, but also for films like this one.