At some point in The Fastest Guitar Alive, a friend tells the
character played by rock legend Roy Orbison that he should stick to
guitar playing because he doesn't have much of a future as a gunslinger.
The same advice appears to have been given to Orbison about his future
as an actor, as this proved to be his big screen debut and farewell as a
leading man. The 1967 movie was the brainchild of producer Sam Katzman,
who was forever associated with schlock that often top-lined popular
singers. Often these poorly-made productions proved to be hits with the
youth audience and it was that philosophy that obviously led Katzman to
think that Orbison could be box-office gold. Katzman had previously
brought several Elvis Presley and Herman's Hermits films to the screen
with success, but his instincts were off track with The Fastest Guitar Alive. Even
by Katzman standards, the 1967 MGM Western comedy is a dud on all
levels. The fact that the Warner Archive has released the movie will
nevertheless be welcome news to Orbison fans, who will treat this an
anomaly in an otherwise distinguished career that saw him write and
perform some of the best known songs of his era.
In this dreary vehicle, Orbison plays Johnny, a gentle singer of ballads
who is partners with Steve (Sammy Jackson). Together, the men travel
through small towns selling snake oil medicine and performing in saloons
with a bevy of showgirls who accompany them (though all seem curiously
virginal). In reality, Johnny and Steve are spies working for the
Confederacy. They use their cover as troubadours to successfully
initiate the robbery of a Union gold shipment in San Francisco with the
hopes of bringing the loot to the fading Southern cause in Texas. The
slight plot is simply a necessary device to frame the numerous ballads
that Orbison gets to warble. It becomes clear that this was a film
designed to support a soundtrack album, not the other way around. To
make Johnny live up to the movie's title, he is given a guitar that must
have been designed by a frontier version of Q Branch: it has a
recoiling rifle that extends when a button is pressed. He uses this to
comic effect on an Indian tribe, the degrading depiction of which must
have been the primary cause for the emergence of Native American
activist groups.
The story ambles from one anemic comic setup to the next without
generating any evidence of wit on the part of the screenwriters.
Although some of Orbison's tunes are fairly good, every time he begins
to sing he is joined by an invisible chorus and full band, all hallmarks
of Katzman productions. The result is absurd, as Orbison is supposedly
plucking away love songs in intimate situations when the soundtrack
clearly has him lip-synching to records made in a state-of-the-art
studio. These unintentional laughs are the only guffaws in the entire
movie. The biggest flaw in the film is Orbison's performance. He looks
nervous and uncomfortable and delivers his lines like a frightened 8th
grader making his stage debut in the school annual play. With every line
he utters, I was reminded of that classic episode of The Honeymooners in
which Jackie Gleason's Ralph Kramden has a panic attack when filming a
live commercial as the Chef of the Future. He gets scant help from the
supporting cast, although old time Western character actors John
Doucette and James Westerfield bring a modicum of dignity to the
production. There is one curious aspect to the movie's legacy: it's the
only vehicle that ever allowed Iron Eyes Cody to co-star with Sam the
Sham, the lead singer of the 60s rock group The Pharaohs.
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