“Do I have two volunteers?”
“We gotta know what we’re gettin’ ourselves into. Might not be safe.”
“Safe! Who knows what’s safe? I knew a man dropped dead from lookin’ at his wife. My own grandmother fought the Indians for sixty years… then choked to death on lemon pie. Do I have two volunteers?”

I was a latecomer to westerns. When I threw myself into classic film a few years ago, it was Film Noir that caught my eye first. Vintage science-fiction, horror, and screwball comedy soon followed, along with plenty of great directors: Hitchcock, Wilder, Hawks, Huston. Westerns seemed like a stuffy genre, too formulaic, old-fashioned and (to this European viewer at least) too American to really attract me. Like a lot of budding film fans, though, I started out by looking to lists for recommendations – things like 1000 Movies You Must See Before You Die guided me into decades, genres and languages I hadn’t previously explored. Soon enough, Westerns started to feel like a huge blind spot, something I should at least try to appreciate. Last Summer, I finally took the plunge, filling my rental list with classics – the first to arrive was The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and I have to admit, my preconceptions were shattered pretty quickly.

A year later, I’m still a long way from being an expert in the genre, but I’m making progress. I’ve learned to love those familiar supporting faces who crop up all the time once you start watching a lot of classic-era Westerns: Andy Devine and his ridiculous voice, Walter Brennan and his fine line in crotchety old-timers, Hank Worden a full lifetime before his wonderfully bizarre role in Twin Peaks. There’s a familiar formula to plenty of films in the genre, sure, but no more than in crime or horror. A lot of them may build up to thrilling showdowns or feature pitched battles between rifle-wielding cavalry and Native American warlords, but just as many work as character studies – usually of men struggling with the weight of past deeds, or working up the courage for future heroics, but films like Forty Guns and Johnny Guitar offer powerful, complex women, too… and this is without even getting started on the later revisionist takes on the genre, or the Italian wave of films that turned up the violence and found a new selection of heroes and villains.

So, I’m still no expert, but I’m starting to get comfortable – and it’s when you start to get comfortable that it’s time for something like 3:10 to Yuma to come along and knock you off your feet once again. Delmer Daves’ 1957 classic may hit a lot of familiar beats, but it has an ace up its sleeve; heading into it with no prior knowledge, there was an unexpected name in the opening credits – Elmore Leonard. I had no idea that Leonard had started out writing Westerns before becoming established as one of the great crime writers, but as soon as these characters start talking, it’s evident that this isn’t quite like other Westerns. Leonard’s gift for wisecracks and tough-guy dialogue is just as well served here as in any of the work he’s more frequently celebrated for.

The basic plot here is one of the old Western stand-bys: a bad guy commits a crime, a good guy sees him do it, and gradually finds the inner strength to bring him to justice, despite great opposition. What makes this telling special – apart from Leonard’s sparkling dialogue – is the two leading actors. Our good guy, Dan, is played by Van Heflin – an actor whose small-face-on-a-big-head combo makes him an unusual choice for a leading role, but perfect as the unassuming everyman. He looks a little like a time-traveling Toby Jones. Dan is a hard-working, sensible cattle farmer with a wife and kids, and he initially resists the call to help. Despite encouragement from his kids, he’s more interested in tending to his farm and keeping his family safe than becoming the hero. However, with crops dwindling in the face of a seemingly endless drought, he’s also desperate for money; when the local stagecoach operator throws in a $200 reward, Dan is unable to resist taking the job.

The meat of the film comes from the simmering tension that builds as Dan attempts to get his prisoner, the notorious outlaw Ben Wade, to the prison-bound train that gives the film its title. Ben is played by Glenn Ford with casual arrogance and no shortage of charm; he’s been caught before, but his loyal and well-drilled gang have a habit of getting him out of trouble. Of course, it’s his arrogance and confidence in his own notoriety that leads to him being caught in the first place, but it also leads to one of the most fascinating conflicts in the film. Dan’s determination to do the right thing is tempered by doubt at every turn. Ben, on the other hand, seems completely comfortable with each criminal action he commits. It’s been stated many times that it’s harder to do good than it is bad, but 3:10 to Yuma gets that message across with a subtle power that raises it above the pack. In what feels like a nod to High Noon, one of the key scenes later on sees stagecoach owner Mr. Butterfield attempting to drum up deputies from around the town, and while he initially has more luck than Gary Cooper did, his band of toughs don’t stick around long enough to be any use. It’s a clever compression of another film’s key message into a couple of powerful scenes that feels familiar, but puts a new twist on proceedings.

While the script and performances carry the film into classic territory, it’s certainly no slouch on any other level – the sweeping landscapes of the Western seem to have led most filmmakers to embrace colour as soon as became available to them, but the widescreen black-and-white chosen here is gorgeous, crisp and perfectly composed. George Duning’s score is also a treat, shifting from gently plucked guitar to sweeping strings and always complementing the action perfectly. Leonard’s dialogue and characters may be the magic ingredient that makes this one of the great westerns, but it’s one of those rare films where every element has been crafted with equal care – a true classic.