Wind River: A Film by Taylor Sheridan

Wind River: A Film by Taylor Sheridan

You’d think the Western was played out. That after Peckinpah’s wild bunch had shot its way through a line of temperance marchers, Jodorowsky had treated us to his gunslinger-and-naked-kid acid trip of El Topo, and we’d watched Charles Bronson’s and Jill Ireland’s three hour love story in the comedy Western From Noon Till Three there’d be nothing left. Nope. The Western is the zombie-genre of American film. Just when you think it’s dead it heaves back to life.

Buskers

Buskers

At the time we had no money, our acoustic guitars, lots of cafes and bars to hang out at, friends to make, streets to meander and minds to expand and experiences to have, sights to behold, girls to meet, facts to unlearn, music to discover and ideas to mature. We were young and free-thinking and knowingly swimming against the current, and in all of that the world was our oyster, and we could just sit back on the beach and listen to the song of the sea.