Deep among the lonely sun-baked hills of Texas, the great and weather-beaten stone still stands. The Comanches called it Squaw’s Head Rock. Time cannot change its impassive face nor dim the legend of the wild young lovers who found heaven and hell in the shadows of the rock. For when the sun is low and the cold wind blows across the desert, there are those of Indian blood who still speak of Pearl Chavez, the half-breed girl from down along the border and of the laughing outlaw with whom she here kept a final rendezvous, never to be seen again. And this is what the legend says… A flower known nowhere else grows from out of the desperate crags where Pearl vanished — Pearl, who was herself a wild flower, sprung from the hard clay, quick to blossom and early to die.
There’s nothing unsubtle about it: scenes alternate between compelling emotion and jaw-dropping crudity without a chance to catch a breath. Modern audiences laugh uncontrollably at excessive scenes, only to applaud some breathtaking moment a few minutes later. — Glenn Erickson