There are westerns, and then there’s The Godchild: a made-for-TV flick so dry, so by-the-numbers, it feels like a tumbleweed rolled through Bonanza and declared bankruptcy. Directed by John Badham (yes, that John Badham—before Saturday Night Fever fame), it’s a dusty Civil War variant on Three Godfathers: three escaped Union soldiers stumble across a dying woman and her newborn baby in the desert, promise to care for it, and then proceed to trudge across the Mojave with all the energy of a hungover mule.
🚷 Where It Trips: Storytelling in Sunstroke
The plot is faithful to the Peter B. Kyne story set-up: three Union POWs, led by Jack Palance’s Rourke, break out of Confederate captivity and, after robbing a bank and galloping through sandstorms, promise to shepherd a newborn to safety when the mother dies in childbirth
Great. Noble premise. Heroic sacrifice. Emotional resonance—if only The Godchild held on to any of it. Instead, Badham’s editing and pacing slice the tension into tiny bite-sized scenes that feel disconnected and dull. Every moral decision—caring for the baby, navigating dehydration, avoiding Apaches—is handled as if listed on a grocery receipt rather than explored for meaning.
😴 Characters That Nap—Unfortunately, on Screen
Jack Palance, Keith Carradine, and Ed Lauter are competent men with rugged faces suited for grit and hardship. Instead, they lumber through the desert like a trio of men suffering from existential hay fever. Palance’s Rourke is supposed to be the hardened leader, but he comes off as a man who woke up too early and is regretting every life choice since 5 A.M.
Jack Warden, playing Sgt. Dobbs, and Keith Carradine as Lt. Lewis cycle through stock “I’m conflicted” tropes without ever committing. Their dialogue is functional, yes—but so delivered that the word “functional” feels like high praise. You’re left longing for even one raw moment—just one scene showing heartbreak, exhaustion, or terror—but the script rarely delivers.
🌵 Direction: Pretty Panoramas, No Pulse
Location filming in Tucson, Red Rock Canyon, and the Mojave Desert preserves visuals better than any generic soundstage . The sun bleeds through the horizon and desert vistas stretch out like god’s credit card statement—promising but ultimately chargeless.
The cinematography is competent—steady, wide shots of horses and tumbleweeds, folks trudging through dust. But composer David Shire’s alternation between bluesy guitar themes and overwrought orchestral stings feels like he can’t decide if we’re in a spaghetti Western or a heartfelt Hallmark special. The result? A soundtrack whiplash that begs: “Pick a feeling, any feeling.”
⚰️ Emotional Engagement: Dead on Arrival
In theory, the narrative—escaping soldiers caring for a baby in the desert—writes itself into your heart. In practice, The Godchild is as emotionally lifeless as its desert setting at high noon. By the time one soldier stoically shoots a wounded companion to spare him from Apache torture, the intended gut–punch just echoes. You’ve grown too bored to care by the time the deed is done.
Even the appearance of Apaches—a necessary Western trope—is so perfunctory it feels like they wandered onto set looking for water. No skirmish. No tension. Just a distant flame of danger that flickers and dies without asking for permission.
🍼 The Baby Is Not Your Culprit
Holding the center of the story is the orphaned infant, whose tragic presence could be the emotional fulcrum… if the actors treated it like one. Instead, the baby is more like a paperweight—there, but without weight. You never see the soldiers struggle with feeding, suffocation fears, or personal sacrifice. It’s like they signed a childcare deal with Amazon Prime: minimal effort, maximum credit.
🤠 The Climax: A Desert-Sweat Explosion
One might hope the final act—a journey to hospital, sacrifices for the baby—would redeem the film. It doesn’t. The payoff arrives with the subtlety of a shotgun: wounded soldier saves baby, or someone collapses, or the cavalry shows up. It just happens—and then credits.
It (finally) ends in a Confederate hospital (or rather, a dusty stand-in), where the lieutenant names the baby after their godfather–like trio. A thin emotional payoff for nearly 75 minutes of arid slog.
🏁 Final Verdict: Dry Heat, No Fire
The Godchild is a Western in desert heat—but not the kind that burns with existential dread or bleeds with emotional gravity. It’s a Western by the numbers: admirable cast, vast landscapes, music that pushes emotional buttons… and all of it ignored.
It’s like watching three men walk across a thrift-store painting of the Grand Canyon and wondering if they’ll stop to read the caption.
Final Grade: 2 stars
One for effort—location work and cast—one for the noble original story. But you need more than that to care.
👍 If You Watch It…
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Enjoy dusty panoramas, long horse shots, and actors chewing adobe.
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Want a Western that won’t challenge you or ask for emotional investment.
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Are a John Badham completist and need to tick this box before he hit Hollywood.
👎 If You Skip It…
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You’re here for moral weight, compelling acting, or even a halfway decent Apache showdown.
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You want to see Palance or Carradine take a character risk. (They don’t.)
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You care more about meaning than mirages.
Bottom line: The Godchild is essential if you’re collecting John Badham’s early work or if you consider long silences and sun-baked visuals aesthetic. But if you’re looking for a Western that kicks dust into your eyes and heart, you’ll want something with a little more grit—and less sand in your coffee.
