Film Review: Soldier Blue (1970)

Hollywood’s reputation as a bastion of leftist politics is often overstated, yet it is undeniable that the late 1960s and early 1970s saw the industry pivot sharply towards anti-establishment narratives. This shift, however, was less a product of genuine ideological conviction among filmmakers than a calculated appeal to the burgeoning counterculture movement, particularly the disillusioned Baby Boomer generation. The Vietnam War, with its daily televised horrors, cast a long shadow over American society, permeating even genres ostensibly detached from contemporary politics. Ralph Nelson’s Soldier Blue (1970), a revisionist Western, exemplifies this trend. Ostensibly a fictionalised account of the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, the film’s heavy-handed parallels to the My Lai atrocity in Vietnam reveal its true purpose: to channel the era’s anti-war sentiment into a historical allegory. Yet, despite its noble intentions, Soldier Blue remains a deeply conflicted work, marred by tonal inconsistency, exploitative violence, and a didacticism that undermines its moral authority.

Adapted from T.V. Olsen’s novel Arrow in the Sun, the film, with plot set in 1877, follows Honus Gant (played by Peter Strauss), a naïve US Army soldier, and Cresta Lee (played by Candice Bergen), a spirited woman rescued from Cheyenne captivity, as they trek across the Colorado Territory to Fort Reunion. Their convoy, ambushed by Cheyenne warriors, leaves them as sole survivors, forced to navigate a landscape fraught with danger: hostile Kiowa tribes, a deranged arms trader (played by Donald Pleasence), and their own ideological clashes. Cresta, despite her ordeal, admires the Cheyenne’s culture, while Honus clings to rigid patriotism. Their dynamic—a blend of romantic tension and moral debate—culminates in a confrontation with Colonel Iverson (played by John Anderson), a genocidal cavalry commander whose fanaticism mirrors the era’s critique of militarism.

To modern audiences, Soldier Blue might register as a stark depiction of America’s colonial violence, but in 1970, its subtext was unmistakable. The Sand Creek Massacre—where U.S. troops slaughtered over 200 Cheyenne and Arapaho, mostly women and children—served as a direct analogue to the My Lai Massacre (1968), a visceral symbol of Vietnam’s moral bankruptcy. Director Ralph Nelson openly acknowledged this parallel, framing the film as a indictment of cyclical brutality. Cresta’s empathy for the Cheyenne and Honus’s eventual disillusionment mirror the Boomer generation’s rejection of their elders’ complicity in Vietnam. Even the titular ballad, performed by Buffy Sainte-Marie, underscores this link, lionising Indigenous resistance while lamenting settler-colonial savagery.

The film’s middle act, focusing on Honus and Cresta’s banter and budding romance, strikes a jarringly light-hearted tone. Their exchanges—part screwball comedy, part philosophical debate—paint Cresta as a proto-feminist icon, her scorn for “civilised” hypocrisy echoing 1970s countercultural rhetoric. Yet this levity feels incongruous, sandwiched between scenes of grotesque violence. Nelson’s attempt to humanise his protagonists through humour inadvertently trivialises the film’s gravitas, reducing their journey to a quirky adventure rather than a harrowing moral odyssey.

The film’s opening and closing massacres are unflinchingly brutal, deploying squibs and practical effects to simulate dismemberment and rape. Nelson, filming in Mexico, reportedly enlisted amputees to heighten realism—a decision that borders on gratuity. The finale, depicting the slaughter of Indigenous women and children, is particularly stomach-churning, its excesses arguably crossing into exploitation. While intended to shock audiences into confronting historical truths, the spectacle risks numbing viewers, reducing atrocity to lurid entertainment. Critics at the time dismissed the film as “exploitation,” a label reinforced by its marketing: the original poster featured a nude Indigenous woman, cynically titillating audiences it sought to morally indict.

Internationally, Soldier Blue found success capitalising on anti-American sentiment, particularly in Europe, where Vietnam-era disillusionment resonated deeply. Domestically, however, it faltered, its message drowned out by controversy over its violence and perceived hypocrisy. Compared to Arthur Penn’s Little Big Man (1970), which tackled similar themes with nuance and dark humour, Soldier Blue feels didactic and uneven. Penn’s film, through the whimsical lens of its 121-year-old protagonist, critiqued Manifest Destiny without sacrificing narrative coherence, whereas Nelson’s work succumbs to its own heavy-handedness.

Soldier Blue remains a fascinating artifact of its time—a well-intentioned but flawed attempt to reckon with America’s sins. Its allegorical ambition is undercut by tonal whiplash, exploitative aesthetics, and a lack of subtlety that borders on condescension. While Candice Bergen’s performance as Cresta and Donald Pleasence’s unhinged trader lend moments of vitality, the film’s moral grandstanding often feels performative, a product of Hollywood’s opportunistic pandering rather than sincere reckoning. As a historical document, it offers insight into 1970s activism; as a work of art, it serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of mixing message with exploitation.

RATING: 4/10 (+)

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