
Sergio Leone was unconvinced. The young actor started his horseback demonstration: the beast galloped, whinnied powerfully and rose onto its hind legs under the pull of the bridle and the squeeze of the spurs. The actor was doing surprisingly well on an animal he’d never ridden before. The horse belonged to the studios and had already performed in a number of Westerns; a fine, well-trained animal, though she remained a tad spirited. Yet Sergio hesitated; he didn’t need a stuntman, he needed a real cowboy. To film a Spaghetti Western, you needed an actor with a firm hand, a hard face, and an expression that was both sensitive and penetrating. In the Wild West, only the strongest could survive, and the heroes in westerns were bad men with murderous hearts. The actor needed to be able to handle his emotions as deftly as a pistol. In the Wild West, the pistol was the keeper of order and the bringer of justice. There were still more tales to be told of cowboys settling scores for unpaid debts, stolen women, and old men humiliated. In Spaghetti Westerns, cruelty took centre stage, although there was always room for a touch of humour. Sergio Leone had decided his latest film would be set at a frenetic pace, though he didn’t yet know the title. This actor was a good stuntman, but he didn’t have the shoulders for the role, or the fragility necessary for the ambivalent character he was imagining. Sergio Leone liked anti-heroes, broken heroes who were vulnerable in their strength. “Thank you for coming, and for the demonstration,” the director sighed. The actor wasn’t getting the part. Sergio Leone remained pensive as the crew tried to calm the overexcited horse. What was the point of bringing in another boatload of actors to audition? He already knew the man he wanted.
That man was Clint Eastwood. His face was hard as stone, but his expression bore scars of life that made it hypnotic and somehow accessible. His smile, cynical, tender or deceptive, could carry any scene. His expression was that of a bird of prey, irritated by the sand, the enemy, penetrating the void between his pistol and the enemy’s. Clint Eastwood was the perfect embodiment of a Spaghetti Western hero. He could play a drunkard, an avenger, a shameless brute, but also a gallant hero, a passionate lover or an idealist dispensing justice. Clint Eastwood loved Sergio Leone as much as Sergio Leone loved him. What would the actor and the director do together this time? Defend a prostitute, steal some loot from a bank, shoot down a crooked sheriff or steal a horse? The potential for so great an actor and so great a director was immense. Sergio Leone read over his script again. Clint Eastwood was the perfect man for it. He’d need to add a mutilation scene to open the film, or perhaps a beating. A hanging would be the perfect ending to the introduction.
“Sergio! What should we do now?” one of the crew members asked him. Two stuntmen are waiting to audition, and three actors want to try out as well...”
“Keep the stunt men,” Leone cut him off. “I already know the actor I want.”
“Got it. The stunt guys can stay, and we'll send the actors home.”
“Thank you.”
Sergio Leone patted the horse on the back. He caressed its mane and whispered: “Clint’s coming back. Aren’t you pleased?” Sergio Leone was looking for a sign that the actor would agree to come back and play his next cowboy. He rubbed the horse’s back again. The animal stomped its hooves as Sergio Leone repeated: “Clint Eastwood, Clint Eastwood!” It was a sign: this would be the greatest Spaghetti Western ever put to film.
Alan Alfredo Geday