If the spaghetti Western genre were to be distilled into a single iconic figure, it would not be the enigmatic drifter of Sergio Leone’s The Man with No Name trilogy—played by Clint Eastwood—but rather the titular protagonist of Sergio Corbucci’s Django. While Leone’s antihero, famously without a name, dominates the mythos of the genre, the moniker “Django” itself became its defining cultural shorthand. Corbucci’s 1966 film, a visceral and uncompromising entry into the genre, stands as one of the few works outside Leone’s oeuvre to achieve lasting cult status, its influence permeating decades of cinema.
The film opens with Django (Franco Nero), a grizzled Union veteran of the US Civil War, trudging through mud with a large coffin as he approaches a border town caught between two warring factions. The town serves as a battleground between the racist paramilitaries of former Confederate Major Jackson (Eduardo Fajardo) and Mexican revolutionary forces led by General Hugo Rodriguez (José Bódalo). Before settling, Django rescues Maria (Loredana Nusciak), a mixed-race prostitute ensnared by both sides. Though initially clashing with Jackson, Django’s past ties to Rodriguez—revealed as an old ally—lead him to aid the general in seizing gold from a Mexican army fort. Yet Django’s motivations remain opaque: his vendetta against Jackson and his ambivalence toward Rodriguez’s cruelty hint at a deeper, more personal agenda. The narrative escalates into a brutal showdown where alliances fracture, and the body count rises, leaving few survivors.
At first glance, Django appears a blatant imitation of Leone’s A Fistful of Dollars (1964), borrowing its premise of a lone gunslinger exploiting a town’s factions. Corbucci, a close associate of Leone, even replicates elements like the symptethic bar owner (here played by Ángel Álvarez) and the mercenary protagonist. Yet, the similarities end there. While Leone’s film thrived on stylised grandeur, Corbucci’s approach is rawer. With a shoestring budget, Django lacks the polished production values of Leone’s work, but this austerity becomes its strength. The muddy landscapes, bleak lighting, and unrefined performances lend the film a visceral, documentary-like quality. Corbucci’s vision of the Old West is stripped of myth; it is a place of squalor, where morality is negotiable and survival depends on ruthless pragmatism.
Django’s most striking feature is its unflinching depiction of violence, far exceeding the norms of 1960s cinema. Scenes of whipping prisoners, mutilations, and Jackson and his men hunting Mexican peasants for sport are rendered with clinical brutality. The film’s political undertones—Jackson’s gang, an anachronistic stand-in for the Ku Klux Klan, and Rodriguez’s equally sadistic revolutionaries—add layers of moral complexity. Corbucci, a self-proclaimed leftist, refuses to vilify one side outright; both factions are depicted as equally corrupt, reflecting his critique of institutionalised racism and authoritarianism. This explicit content led to censorship in many countries, yet it also became a marketing hook, positioning Django as a daring transgression of cinematic boundaries.
Corbucci’s politics permeate the narrative, even as he avoids overt didacticism. The inclusion of the term “racist,” anachronistically applied to Jackson’s men, underscores the film’s contemporary relevance. Yet Corbucci’s critique extends beyond Southern bigotry: Rodriguez’s revolutionaries, while sympathetic in their opposition to oppression, are shown to be just as brutal, their power hungry and uncompromising. This balance avoids simplistic hero-villain dynamics, instead presenting a world where survival demands moral compromise.
The film’s aesthetic is equally bold. Enzo Barboni’s cinematography and Carlo Simi’s production design craft a desolate landscape, where the mud-streaked coffin Django drags becomes a recurring symbol of death and futility. Louis Bacalov’s score, particularly the haunting ballad “Django,” elevates the film’s opening sequence into an operatic statement. The music, coupled with the iconic image of Django’s weary trek, sets a tone of existential dread that permeates the narrative.
Franco Nero’s Django is a masterclass in screen presence. Rejecting the suave coolness of Eastwood, Nero’s portrayal is weathered and world-weary, his stoic silence and piercing gaze embodying a man haunted by his past. The actor’s insistence on aging make-up and a distinctive hairstyle cemented both his character as an archetype and his future stardom. Nusciak’s Maria, meanwhile, adds unexpected depth as a woman dealing with exploitation by both factions. Her role transcends the typical damsel-in-distress trope, offering a rare instance of female agency in a male-dominated genre.
Django is not without its shortcomings. The reveal of the coffin’s content comes too early, diminishing its dramatic potential. The finale, while chaotic, feels rushed and underwhelming, its climax lacking the emotional punch of Leone’s operatic set-pieces. Additionally, the film’s brisk 90-minute runtime, while contributing to its relentless pace, leaves little room for nuanced character development. Yet these flaws are outweighed by the film’s audacity and energy. Its brevity ensures it remains taut and engaging, avoiding the bloatedness that plagues some spaghetti Westerns.
Django’s box-office success spawned a deluge of imitators, many exploiting loopholes in Italian copyright law to append “Django” to their titles. The genuine sequel, Django Strikes Again (1987), and a 2023 television series starring Matthias Schoenaerts, attest to the character’s enduring appeal. However, the film’s most profound impact lies in its influence on filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino. The infamous ear-cutting scene in Reservoir Dogs (1992) directly references Django’s similar sequence, while Tarantino’s Django Unchained (2012) is a loving homage to Corbucci’s work. Even Miike Takashi’s Sukiyaki Western Django (2007) bears its mark, further cementing the film’s status as a cornerstone of exploitation cinema.
Django is a landmark film not merely for its place in spaghetti Western history but for its fearless exploration of violence, politics, and moral ambiguity. Corbucci’s unflinching vision, coupled with Nero’s iconic performance and Bacalov’s haunting score, creates a work that transcends its low-budget origins. While its narrative flaws and rushed pacing may disappoint some, the film’s raw energy and thematic depth ensure its status as a cult classic. For those willing to confront its unvarnished brutality, Django remains a testament to cinema’s power to shock, provoke, and endure—a true relic of its time, yet startlingly modern in its unapologetic nihilism.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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