Since the earliest days of film and television, cowboys have been a fixture. Well, more accurately, white cowboys have been a fixture. White actors made names for themselves playing gunslinging heroes and outlaws, while reinvigorating the legends of Wild West figures like Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Jesse James, Seth Bullock, Butch Cassidy, and the Sundance Kid. Meanwhile, the stories of cowboys of color were oft-ignored or cast to the sidelines. This exclusionary history makes The Harder They Fall an act of defiance and reclamation. Bursting with dazzling Black stars, the Netflix-made Western introduces some of the fascinating Black cowpokes who made their mark on the Wild West. Co-writer/director Jeymes Samuel resurrects their legends with style, attitude, and an opening title card that teases, “While the events of this story are fictional...These. People. Existed.”
Like many a classic Western, The Harder They Fall builds toward an epic showdown between good and evil. Often, that battle is between a steely sheriff and a villainous scoundrel. But here, both men are outlaws.
Idris Elba stars as Rufus Buck, a notorious kingpin whose spectacular breakout from prison has sparked fresh fear. Backed by Treacherous Trudy Smith (Regina King) and Cherokee Bill (LaKeith Stanfield), he’ll have to face off against Nat Love (Jonathan Majors), an outlaw who robs outlaws and has a score to settle with Buck. Backing Love is a motley crew that includes Marshall Bass Reeves (Delroy Lindo), saloon owner Stagecoach Mary (Zazie Beetz), a bouncer called Cuffee (Danielle Deadwyler), sharpshooter Bill Pickett (Edi Gathegi), and cocky quickdraw Jim Beckwourth (RJ Cyler). Beyond counting down to conflict High Noon-style, screenwriters Samuel and Boaz Yakin work in way plenty of plot and character moments. Then, just when it seems the big showdown has arrived, the plotline swerves to loop in more action, more outlaw charm, and a detour to a white town that is comically so (in population, production design, and even down to the white-sanded thoroughfare.)
As their story zigs and zags, Samuel and Yakin work in familiar Western archetypes, like the noble outlaw, the corrupt mayor, the damsel in distress, and the arrogant young gun. Now, however, they’re all Black: the good, the bad, and the — well, no one here is ugly. Tableaux shots of the ensemble in moments of riveting pause look like they could be editorial fashion spreads. This is a ferocious fantasy, where style matters much more than historical accuracy. So, Buck’s domain of Redwood is bursting with color, every wooden building painted in vibrant teals, reds, purples, and yellows. The costumes are rugged in the way of Hollywood Westerns, which is to say that they’re gorgeous and roughed up without looking rough. Perhaps most notable though, is the music.
Forget the dusty ditties and country crooning. James’s soundtrack is made up of spirituals, funk, blues, and rap, all musical forms defined by Black voices. There’s even a surreal burlesque number that involves modern dance and lots of blue body paint. Along with dialogue that includes modern slang, this anachronistic collision may be jarring to traditionalists of Westerns, but it does well to recontextualize the genre to encompass American culture that has been long overlooked by its mainstream entries. In this vein, James pays tribute to Blaxploitation films — where Black cowboys rode high — offering a parade of Black badasses, fight sequences that don’t pull their punches (or their blood spray), and split screens that give an exciting urgency to high-tension moments. Yet James’ greatest achievement might be pulling together such an outstanding cast.
With a crooked smirk that assures danger, Regina King is a queen of the West from the moment she stares down a speeding train. Though he’s played his share of villains, Idris Elba masterfully blends a pulsing menace with a rueful resignation that makes the final act hit like a bullet to the heart. Striding with an eerie calm, LaKeith Stanfield brings an edged world-weariness that makes his gunslinger especially unnerving. Shouldering scenes of tragedy, tenderness, and tension, Jonathan Majors is mesmerizing and rises to the level of every acclaimed co-star. Plus, he’s got terrific chemistry with Zazie Beetz, who shimmers as a love interest with grit and glamor. Playing a hardened marshall, Delroy Lindo brings the gravitas of a dignitary, while Edi Gathegi and RJ Cyler create a sharply realized comedy duo, one the suave straight man the other an affable stooge. Yet the standout of the supporting cast might be Danielle Deadwyler, whose character must endure the violence all the others do, but faces additional threats and indignities because of who they are. Deadwyler’s wild eyes, furious yet focused, make masterful use of close-ups, turning each moment into a breath-snatching one.
While many of these stylistic flourishes make for a rich cinematic world that will likely urge Netflix users to rewatch again and again (and could spur a sequel), there’s one creative choice that feels increasingly odd.
If you do even a cursory glance at the histories of the real people that inspired The Harder They Fall, you’ll see these characters have little — if anything — to do with their actual stories. So, why use these names at all? Is it still a tribute if much of the character details presented are pure fiction? Likewise, does it matter that the casting makes each of them movie-star good-looking? Or is the flashy story and the stunning cast meant as a lure to urge audiences to learn more about these real people who existed?
Notable classic Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid opens with a title card that promises “most of what follows is true,” but it wasn’t. Many Westerns take liberties with real-world figures to make a more cinematic or exciting story, even the critically heralded hit series Deadwood. So should veracity doesn't matter in a quality Western? Maybe the introduction of the names of these Black historical figures to a wide audience (re: a worldwide Netflix audience) is enough to justify their use. Or perhaps it's enough that The Harder They Fall rides in with stirring spectacle and leaves its audience hungry for more.
With a vibrant and enthralling film, stuffed with stars and style, Samuel is potentially kicking the door wide open for more Black-fronted Westerns that can dive more deeply into their real stories or pave the way for other exciting adventures. After all, if Wyatt Earp and Jesse James can be featured in a slew of film and TV shows, why not Nat Love or Rufus Buck?
The Harder They Fall opens in select theaters on Oct. 22 and arrives on Netflix on Nov. 3.
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