I have no name…
As a John Ford fan, I found it difficult to appreciate the Spaghetti Western genre. It could have been the wry, hero-sinking humour, the semi-comic caricatures, the wet-dreamlike violence, or the improbable lip-sinking. Take your pick.
Things began to improve for the genre once somebody said that I had a look of Clint Eastwood. From there on in, and to the next Espano-Americano collaboration, I became a bit of a follower. So much so, that I once bought a poncho as part of my Man With No Name fancy dress.
“Are you laughing at my horse?”
Now, I have much more in common with the stranger who rides into town on a mission of justice or revenge; I am older. And I officially have No Name.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I have many names now, but none of them is the one that I would prefer to be…
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