Five Twilight Zone episodes that exemplify Rod Serling's dark take on the western genre.
A western is a tale about nothing less than life and death. However fictitious our notions of 'the wild west' may be, the genre itself represents a narrative style wherein the setting is inherently
lawless, bordering on anarchic. Yes, there is always a lawman, and usually some semblance of order on the many dusty, windy main streets that feature centrally in almost every western. But the nature of the genre is such that an individual with sufficient strength could overthrow the governing powers at any time and make himself the lawman. In a western, the rules of the game are: might makes right.
This is why the heroes of westerns are so admirable - they hold to their principles even when there is no law to back them up. When there is conflict in a western, the only thing keeping both sides from violence is a strict code of honor and the estimation of equal strength on both sides. But if honor is violated, or one side believes itself to be the stronger, violence is almost assured.
Though he was a purveyor of surreal, dark and supernatural tales, Rod Serling seemed to have a thing for westerns. If you include the episodes that deal with the civil war, The Twilight Zone had around a dozen episodes set in the old west, arguably more. But Serling & company weave tales that, while archetypically western in many ways, deal with the darker aspects of life, tend to eschew a traditional moral center, and usually include elements of the supernatural, or horror. For the purposes of this post, I've avoided episodes which include time travel (The Execution, Back There) and episodes which are too 'light' or absurdist (Mr. Denton on Doomsday, Showdown with Rance McGrew). From the remaining episodes, I chose these five as what I would consider to be the best representatives for the Twilight Zone's unique 'dark western' genre.
1. Dust (Season 2, Episode 12)
Written by: Rod Serling
"There was a village - built of crumbling clay and rotting wood. And it squatted ugly under a broiling sun like a sick and mangy animal wanting to die. This village had a virus, shared by its people. It was the germ of squalor, of hopelessness, of a loss of faith. For the faithless, the hopeless, the misery-laden, there is time, ample time to engage in one of the other pursuits of men. The begin to destroy themselves."
The episode 'Dust' sells a tone that is cynical as can be, to the point of mean-spiritedness at times. The opening shots reveal a desolate town - the quintessential dusty, desert town of the wild west, and one that is particularly poor and run-down. A few moments later, we see the gallows, being tested.
We're then introduced to Peter Sykes, a traveling salesman. Variations on this type of character were popular in westerns, and the Twilight Zone is no exception to this. However, in contrast to the benign merchant in Mr. Denton on Doomsday, or the likable Mr. Garrity in a subsequent episode, Peter Sykes is a boorish, unscrupulous low-life. Returning from St. Louis, he comes to peddle his wares, and he's more than a little excited that Sheriff Koch is scheduled to hang a local named Gallegos. He visits the jail both to offer to sell the sheriff rope for the hanging, and to taunt the condemned man - by morally chastising him and by gleefully speaking of his coming execution.
"You talk big behind a badge, Koch."
"It just sounds big to you because you're a midget, Sykes."
-Sykes to Sheriff Koch
Gallegos was driven to alcoholism by the destitution of the village, and killed a young girl with his wagon in a drunk driving accident. It's implied that distrust of foreigners is at least partially responsible for the unduly harsh sentence Gallegos has received for manslaughter. Even though the sheriff agrees that Gallegos is culpable, it clearly doesn't sit right with him to
hang the man. Meanwhile, Gallegos' family are distraught, begging the forgiveness and understanding of the town, who rebuke them. Sykes remains morally certain about his behavior; he walks alongside the funeral procession, trying to stir up vindictiveness in the mother and father of the dead child - he promises that things will be 'cheerier' tomorrow when Gallegos is hanged. Everyone else in the village seems to think so - locals begin arriving, some with their children, to watch the event.
"They're tired of hating this place. The sun. The ground that
is dead under your feet. They must go out and find something else to
hate."
-Luis Gallegos
While some of the characters and acting sometimes seem exaggerated, the episode does manage to set a genuinely dreary atmosphere and tone. The sheriff has huge circles under his eyes - the man looks
tired, fed up, exhausted with Sykes and the climate of negativity around him more than anything else. Gallegos seems repentant, but gloomy - resigned to his fate, but pained by the knowledge of what his death will do to his family. And it is almost embarrassing to watch Gallegos' father beg for his son's life; he seems to be more 'at the end of his rope' than his son. Absolution seems nigh on impossible. Then, things get worse. When Sykes sees how superstitious Gallegos' father is - he tries to give Gallegos a 'lucky coin' - he hatches a plan to con the old man and humiliate him all at once. He offers him a 'magic dust' that will turn hatred into love for one hundred pesos. The notion seems almost too cruel, and Thomas Gomez as Sykes hams it up as the episode's petty villain, cackling maniacally.
One might have expected the twist to be something along the lines of the dust working after all, but the episode manages to surprise a little by avoiding the obvious twist. Because the dust is obviously not really magical, a hint of pity comes into the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Canfield, as they watch Gallegos' father futilely plead for his son's life. And in the end, it turns out that
nothing Sykes sells is worth the price - not even his rope. Finally, Mrs. Canfield pleads with her husband, "No more."
Dust speaks to man's antagonism to man
as a past-time; when a person has nothing else to live for, and is overwhelmed by sorrow and hatred, focusing that hatred can alleviate such a man's pain. In the lawlessness of the old west, this cruelty can easily be made manifest into law - in the form of swift, summary executions. We see the gamut of cruelty in Dust, from the cheerful maliciousness of Sykes; to the Canfield's steely determination to pass judgment; to the base sadism of the townspeople. The redemption of love and compassion doesn't even seem possible in such an environment - but the tonal shift is surprisingly effective because, once mercy is enacted, positive changes seem almost inevitable. Gallegos - who was irredeemable to the villagers - is spared. Then, even Sykes - who was irredeemable in
our eyes, the eyes of the audience - redeems himself a little.
2. The Grave (Season 3, Episode 7)
Written by: Montgomery Pittman
"Some men of legend and folk tale have been known to continue having
their way even after death. The outlaw and killer Pinto Sykes was such a
person, and shortly we'll see how he introduces the town and a man
named Conny Miller, in particular, to the Twilight Zone."
While definitely the creepiest episode on this list, The Grave also has the distinction of also being one of the creepiest Twilight Zone episodes,
period. The narrative structure works very much like a 'scary story' that one might tell around a campfire, and it includes many of the tropes of the kind of stories you might find in a book like Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (remember those, kids?) - the main character is a sort of 'flawed innocent', a character with obvious and tragic faults, but which do not morally compromise him to the point that we think he 'deserves' what happens to him. In other words, we can still sympathize with the character, even as his own actions doom him. In this sense, this episode could also be said to contain a dash of dramatic tragedy.
Coincidentally, there's also a character named Sykes in The Grave - but this character, named
Pinto Sykes, is gunned down almost immediately in this episode. Surrounded by townsfolk with six-shooters on a bleak, windy evening, Sykes is shot dead. His father and sister, Ione, are called to his side as Sykes dies.
Lee Marvin portrays the main character: Conny Miller, a mercenary. Conny was hired to track down Sykes, who was hated by all as a bully who treated the town as "his own personal property". However, Sykes eluded Conny's pursuit across the west, and eventually returned to the town. As the townspeople recount to Conny, they eventually gathered the courage to gang up on Sykes. A few seem curious about Conny's timing in returning, and things start to get really interesting once we hear what Sykes had to say about Conny on his deathbed - and
to him.
"What'd he say about me?"
"He got really riled when he mentioned you. He said the slower he ran away, the slower you chased him. He said he waited for you in Albuquerque. He even sent word where he was. You never showed up. He said you oughtta be able to catch him now. But that if you ever come anyways close to his grave, he'll reach up and grab yah!"
"He lied. Even on his deathbed."
-Conny Miller and Mothershed
Pinto Sykes swore that Conny Miller was just a coward, and given that Conny spent four months chasing Sykes with no results, the townsfolk seem to have a certain animosity towards him for failing - and this inclines them to believe Sykes' deathbed accusation of cowardice. And even though Conny counters, claiming that Sykes was never in Albuquerque more than a night, the townspeople in the tavern don't quite believe him... and neither do we. When the door suddenly opens, Conny draws his pistol, as if startled - however, it's only Sykes' sister, Ione. She seems to be taking her brother's death a little too well; her demeanor could almost be described as whimsically sinister.
As the speculation continues into the night, eventually Johnny Rob, the town blabbermouth, bets Conny twenty dollars - which he spent twenty weeks saving - that he won't go alone to Pinto Sykes' grave that night. It isn't long before a businessman named Steinhart - portrayed by Lee Van Cleef - also bets against Conny; even the calculating, unemotional capitalist is willing to wager against him. At this point, Conny can't turn down the bet. Sticking to his guns and with his reputation at stake, Conny goes over the rules with the others: he is to stab a knife into the earth near Sykes' grave, as proof that he actually approached the grave. Conny is increasingly irritated as the townspeople go on doubting him - first his courage, then his honesty. Eventually, determined to prove his nerve, he leaves with little hesitation.
The sight of Ione descending from her brother's grave, cloaked in black, is truly unsettling; the shadows and wind in the bleak-looking cemetery are equally unnerving. As Conny continues with the wager, there are so many indications that he
is actually afraid, and we can't help but suspect that must be some truth to Ione's claims that she's be in communion with her dead brother. It seems so worthless for Conny to have to prove himself, or for Sykes to want to antagonize Conny from beyond the grave. The right answer seems to have been to let things be. The honor in bravery is in its necessity - in overcoming dangers that
must be tackled. If there is a moral to be found, we might consider that Conny is punished for striving to prove himself - for the sake of bragging rights, money, to shut up his critics, for his
reputation. Bravery can't be bravery without actual danger involved, after all. Is it really worth risking a man's life - merely to convince others that he isn't afraid?
3. Still Valley (Season 3, Episode 11)
Written by: Rod Serling (Adapted from the story, "The Valley Was Still" by Manly Wade Wellman)
"The time is 1863, the place the state of Virginia. The event is a mass blood-letting known as the Civil War,
a tragic moment in time when a nation was split into two fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation. This is Joseph Paradine,
Confederate cavalry, as he heads down toward a small town in the middle
of a valley. But very shortly, Joseph Paradine will make contact with
the enemy. He will also make contact with an outpost not found on a
military map - an outpost called the Twilight Zone."
Still Valley is possibly the clumsiest episode included here. It has some campy elements as well as eerie, but I've included it as a representative of the many Twilight Zone episodes that dealt with the Civil War, and among those it is the most sufficiently dark and 'western' entry. This episode creates a solemn, dreary atmosphere fairly well, which is maintained even the story gives way to what is essentially a pulp, B-movie-esque premise.
There is a feeling of resignation in this episode, as Sergeant Joseph Paradine, a Confederate army scout, prepares for a mission to spy on Union troops who have just come to a nearby town. His companion, a fellow Confederate named Dauger, has lost all heart to fight, and first suggests that they flee, then that they should surrender, opining that the fall of the Confederacy is a foregone conclusion. Paradine is disgusted.
"So far, you and me pledged nothing to the Confederacy, except a lack of sleep and empty bellies. But there's a couple hundred thousand others who pledged a lot more. You're making it appear like they did it for nothing."
-Paradine, to Dauger
Paradine rides down to the town alone, puzzled that sound can no longer be heard issuing from the valley, when he'd only just spotted a Union regiment entering the town. At first he is stealthy, but it quickly becomes clear that Union soldiers are frozen in place, their expressions blank and their bodies seemingly paralyzed. This is the weakest part of the episode - Paradine spends waaayyy too much time running around, shouting at the 'yanks' to move, wondering out loud about what's happening, and finally yelling for the entire regiment to surrender to him. Of course, the troops remain fixed and unmoving, and the theatrical style of screenwriting that was very influential on The Twilight Zone (and that era of television in general) begins to work against the pacing of the story as the main character continues his unrealistic, over-the-top monologue. Things don't pick up until Paradine catches the attention of Teague, an elderly man who seems to be the only one unaffected by the 'stillness'.
Spouting notably silly lines with a matter-of-fact delivery, Teague declares things such as, "I'm a witch-man!" or, "This is conjure-stuff!" He has a book that is literally only marked with the word, "Witchcraft", in a font that belongs on a doom metal album.
 |
| Not making this up. |
Teague uses magic to freeze Paradine, and reveals that he is a Confederate sympathizer. He claims that with the powers of the book, one could freeze the entire Union army and pave the way for a Confederate victory. Unfortunately, he is dying - so it's awfully convenient for him that a Confederate soldier turned up for him to pass the power on to. Paradine is excited by the prospect, but he is a bit suspicious by Teague's constant invokations to the 'prince of darkness'. Teague finally admits that, yes, the powers of book kind of put you in league with Satan.
When Paradine returns to camp, he demonstrates the power for the other Confederate officers who have arrived. However, as he begins to chant a spell powerful enough to win the war, he realizes that the spell demands that they all renounce God. Even if you're not religious, it's hard to imagine not getting something of a chill as Paradine begins to uncomfortably call on Satan for the use of black magic - something about the trope of making a deal with the devil carries with it a sense of finality, and burning a bridge with all that's good and right.
"It's that book or it's the end!"
"Then it let it be the end! If it must come, let it come. If this cause is to be buried, let it be put in hallowed ground."
-Dauger and Paradine
Perhaps the views on the Confederacy put forward here are a bit outdated: the notion of the south as essentially noble, fighting valiantly for their lost cause. Nevertheless, the mutual brutality of the Civil War was something to be lamented, and despite the tyrannies of the south, the average soldier fighting for the Confederacy was not the devil himself. Most on both sides were ordinary and lower-class, and many soldiers on both sides had family in the opposing army. While it may now be distasteful to honor the Confederacy as a noble enemy, we can at least reflect on the unfortunate conflict called the Civil War, and lament that most of those who fought and died for their respective causes were decent men, pushed into conflict by convictions that made such a confrontation inevitable. And, in the end, we can be thankful for the mercies enacted over the course of the Civil War, wherever they can be found in history.
4. Mr. Garrity and the Graves (Season 5, Episode 32)
Written by:
Rod Serling (From a story by Mike Korologos)
"Introducing Mr. Jared Garrity, a gentleman of commerce, who in the latter half of the 19th century plied his trade in the wiled and wooly hinterlands of the American West."
The traveling salesman pops up again in Mr. Garrity and the Graves, this time as a more central figure; not to mention the fact that once again the title of the episode involves graves. The common threads of Serling's 'dark western' tales are beginning to coalesce. However, this is the least serious of all the 'dark western' stories, with its tongue planted firmly in cheek.
The setting of this tale is Happiness, Arizona, although it wasn't always known as Happiness. Not ten months before the beginning of the story, the town was known by various other names: Satan's Stagestop, Dead Man's Junction, Boothill Village - that last one named for the nearby Boothill Town Cemetery, in which 128 people are buried, all shot dead (except for one, who died of natural causes). When Mr. Garrity, a mysterious salesman, rolls into town, the bartender explains that the town was able to 'take stock' of itself and hire some good lawmen to actually enforce the laws and maintain the peace. Now, the town has transitioned into a fit place to live. Garrity is impressed and toasts to the good fortune of the town; the bartender casually asks him what his trade is. "I bring back the dead," Garrity nonchalantly tells us.
John Dehner's Garrity starts to sound like a con-man very quickly to the audience, almost as quickly as he mollifies the leaders of the town of Happiness and gains their trust. The thing is, Dehner plays a thoroughly
likeable con-man. The only comparison I might draw could be to crime dramas where the protagonist is the criminal, but one that you root for - like The Sting, or Jackie Brown. In a way, this episode almost seduces you to a sort of con artist's logic: the people of the town are so foolish with their money that it almost seems like they don't deserve to hold on to it. Because Garrity's con plays into the selfishness of the people of Happiness, we don't feel so bad about him bleeding them dry. And in the end, everyone acts of their own free will. The people have only themselves and their prioritization of their own self-interest to blame.
After promising to revive all the dead of Boothill Cemetery, Garrity manipulates the townspeople, one by one, into thinking better of bringing back
all the dead, which includes ex-wives and husbands, violent criminals, and their obnoxious neighbors and creditors - better to leave one or two still in ground, especially if part of why Happiness has been such a better place is that some of its worst citizens are now dead and buried. But since the resurrection has already been initiated, he requires payment to
not bring this or that person back. Eventually, everyone who was set to be restored to life has had someone happily give Garrity a wad of money to keep them in the grave.
"Real sorry, friends. Real sorry that I actually couldn't perform what I laid claim to. So rest in peace, all of you."
-Garrity, to the graves
The best part of this episode is the ending, which I'm not going to spoil for you if you haven't already seen it. Needless to say, it changes the tone of the entire episode into more of a dark comedy, from the previously light-hearted comedy it was at the beginning. I'd even go so far as to say that a touch of horror raises its head here, if only for a moment. In my humble opinion, this is the best variation on the trope of the traveling salesman, whose tonics, wares and spells are all of questionable potency.
5. Come Wander With Me, Season 5, Episode 34
Written by: Anthony Wilson
"Mr. Floyd Burney, a gentleman songster in search of song, is about to
answer the age-old question of whether a man can be in two places at the
same time. As far as his folk song is concerned, we can assure Mr.
Burney he'll find everything he's looking for, although the lyrics may
not be all to his liking. But that's sometimes the case - when the words
and music are recorded in the Twilight Zone."
The Twilight Zone is among the most 'literary' of television series, and Come Wander With Me is among the most literary of Twilight Zone episodes. It warrants comparison to the metaphor-laden southern short stories of the likes of Flannery O'Conner, and is famously cryptic, which has led some to puzzle over the episode for many years, but most others simply to dismiss the episode as nonsense, or overly surreal. I'll admit, it took me awhile to warm up to this episode. That being said - this episode was truly
haunting, and it stuck with me for a long time before I understood why it made such a strong impression on me. Maybe its partially because I'm a musician, maybe its because the featured song is striking and beautiful, or maybe something else, more elusive.
This is arguably the least 'western' of all the episodes involved; I'd argue that it emulates aspects of that genre, albeit in a different rural setting. The key elements are there in this episode: the character enters a hostile territory, a lawless wilderness where different rules apply, and conflicts can easily escalate into violence if honor is not satisfied. Our protagonist, Floyd Burney, begins the episode by literally crossing a bridge into what seems to be strange, almost unreal-seeming world. The characters often seem to talk past one another; Burney is clueless, but inexorably driven by something within; the events of the episode seem to unfold unavoidably, as if they were preordained. Burney's a musician, who has jumped on the bandwagon of making 'authentic', 'backwoods' folk music, and he's seeking a song to record and make into a hit.
"Come wander with me, love,
come wander with me,
away from this sad world,
come wander with me."
Burney initially pulls up to the storefront of the local 'musicman', but he soon hears a melody in the woods and wanders off to find its singer - eventually he finds her, and her name is Mary Rachel. She speaks in oblique references to future events, though in the past tense; she eventually says things like, "Don't run
this time," leaving us with the impression that this has all happened before, and will happen again, a possibility made all the more likely by Serling's opening narration and the reveal that Burney's gravestone is already etched and in the ground. Meanwhile, a doppelganger of Mary looks on from just out of sight, dressed in what looks like a mourning shawl. We wonder if this is just part of an ever-repeating song - a story told in the song's many verses, which Mary Rachel is doomed to sing. She wishes that the words could be different, but the song is always the same. It has to be.
"He came from the sunset.
He came from the sea.
He came from my sorrow,
and can love only me."
The Nietzschean concept of eternal return comes to mind - the thought experiment about the possibility that one's life will be repeated, exactly the same as it has been every time, ad infinitum. It's worth noting that Nietzsche saw reality as inherently
musical; the nature of the dilemma put forward in Birth of a Tragedy could be described as a decision between dancing 'with the music', or dancing to one's own rhythm. Does one try to stand out and take command of their own destiny, or go with the flow, give in to one's nature and learn to love fate? The answer is, according to Nietzsche that one shall inevitably follow the course set by their essential nature and its drives. Even one who tries to stand out is just giving in to his nature as an independent, creative spirit. Even one who tries to give in is taking charge and deciding for himself what he wants to become. Because one always ends up "becoming who one is", Nietzsche did not believe in the concept of free will - everything human is therefore the product of measurable, biological drives.
"Oh where is the wanderer,
Who wandered this way.
He's passed on his wandering,
And will never go away."
If we entertain the possibility that Wilson intended Come Wander With Me to touch on these themes, then it can be understood as a song about an episode more than an episode about a song. Mary Rachel wants Floyd to go against the flow of the music, hoping that one of these times he'll make something different of himself. But that simply isn't
who he is; his role in the song is ultimately to fail to act differently, or even to comprehend the nature of his situation. Hers is to forever beg him to change, knowing that he can't. The tides of fate have set Floyd Burney on a certain course which he must follow; after all, his grave has already been dug, he's already in it, and she's already mourning for him. The song is, by its very nature, bittersweet - as such, the narrative
the verses weave is tragic. When Burney finally wishes to relinquish the
song, begging Mary Rachel to "take it back," he still misunderstands
the depth of the situation - in truth, the song was
always his. She can't take it back.
"He sang of a sweet love,
Of dreams that would be.
But I was sworn to another,
And could never be free."
The central conflict in the episode stems from the fact that Mary Rachel is bespoke (engaged) to Billy Rayford, the youngest of four brothers who live nearby. As such, she begins the episode by insisting that the song is not for Floyd, but for Billy. Floyd can't understand this - he is bound and determined to 'discover' a song to purchase, or even steal, so that he can make it big. The fact that something might not be for sale is foreign to him, as are the conservative standards of chastity and behavior in this part of rural America. Its Burney's foolhardy disrespect for the song which is his undoing. He doesn't realize that the price of claiming such a song is not paid in dollars - his actions were nothing less than tempting fate.
Floyd Burney ends up being a somewhat unlikable character, and its partially for this reason that I puzzled for so long over why this episode stuck with me. Maybe its because, like Conny Miller, he's a flawed innocent - he's arrogant, rude, stubborn and reckless, but we don't think Burney deserves to
die. And we can feel Mary Rachel's pain over being caught in the middle. The inevitability of it all seems to ultimately make Come Wander With Us a fatalist tragedy; if things could have been just a little different, it all might have turned out for the better, for everyone involved. Alas, we end exactly where we began - at Floyd Burney's grave, knowing full well that it won't be long before he walks over it, unwittingly, yet again.
Conclusion:
The Western is a dramatic genre, and one that typically deals with serious subject matter. As I asserted at the beginning of this article, westerns are basically stories about life and death. The western confronts a period of American history that was marked by occasional brutality and lawlessness by mythologizing it into a more primitive setting; a battleground where morality plays can unfold, and one can see the true nature of good and evil when the ordering influence of the state and its laws are absent.
But if the westerns made famous by the likes of John Wayne were black & white in their moral outlook, Serling & company's 'dark western' tales exist in shades of gray. The traditional virtues of western heroes - manliness, bravery, tenacity, patriotism - are of no help in the Twilight Zone, and can even serve to undo the protagonist, given the circumstance. Like many episodes of the series, these dark westerns border on magical realism given how the world itself sometimes behaves unpredictably, to mirror the conditions of their protagonists. Above all, the dark western retains the genre element of the hero confronting a lawless territory, but his morality is no guarantee of his success, for there is no clear moral order at the end of most of these tales. The character may do the nothing but the right thing, or at least the understandable thing, and still end up dead and buried.
Still, the genre is not totally cynical. At the end of the day, optimism
is possible, if one commits to solid action and hard work. Even though the dark western includes supernatural elements
that are absent from traditional westerns, it is the grittier of the two
genres. The good guys
can win in the end, but there is nothing ensuring this. And that's assuming there's a good guy, or that everyone doesn't lose. Both very real possibilities, so long as your western takes place... in the Twilight Zone.
