I had to cry uncle in the second hour. Apart from Jimmy Dean’s terrific physical characterization of resentful roughneck Jett Rink, and despite George Stevens desperately to make some work of art, there’s no earthly reason to watch this film. Bland, plastic characterizations matched by bland, plastic performances by Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson, who, initially, lends a disarming gentleness to his western macho icon, but quickly discards this for a nauseating pomposity. A major problem is I don’t know who I’m supposed to root for. Sure, Jett’s violent and uncouth, but I still sympathise more with his desperate attempts to mak something of himself than with the Benedict’s American-Aristocrat self-satisfaction which, the plot arc implies, would be entirely okay if they could just learn to be a touch less racist.