JANE GOT A GUN. A Western Undone by Behind-the-Scenes Chaos

Women don’t have much luck with the cinematic Wild West. The fairer sex rarely ventures into this particular genre, and when they do, they tend to circle around it like vultures over an almost-dead victim, trying to take a different bite out of the prairie. This usually results in either imperfect experiments—such as Meek’s Cutoff—or numerous production problems that ultimately lead to financial disaster. The latter category perfectly fits the New Mexico-shot film starring Natalie Portman, which cost the studio over twenty million dollars. And all because of… men. Of course, it’s hard to blame the financial flop directly on the all-male trio responsible for the screenplay—Brian Duffield, Anthony Tambakis, and Joel Edgerton (who also plays one of the main roles). Nor on Gavin O’Connor (Warrior), the director brought in at the last minute, or the string of big-name actors who abandoned the project due to months-long delays (including Michael Fassbender, Bradley Cooper, and Jude Law). If reports are to be believed, the main culprit behind Jane Got a Gun—as the original title goes—was the film’s producer, Scott Steindorff.

It was Steindorff who caused the originally hired Lynne Ramsay (We Need to Talk About Kevin)—one of the few women to take the reins of a Western—to pack her bags before the first take was even shot. With her departure, Law also walked away, as did legendary cinematographer Darius Khondji, dashing any hopes for a uniquely female artistic vision. Still, in many ways, the film remained in female hands: cinematography was ultimately handled by Mandy Walker (Hidden Figures), and the score was composed by the revered Lisa Gerrard alongside her frequent collaborator, Marcello De Francisci.

Suffice it to say, these women delivered, offering a fresh perspective on a genre typically dominated by testosterone.

Although Westerns have long featured strong female characters, they rarely take center stage. And even more rarely—except perhaps in the cases of Calamity Jane, the similarly themed Hannie Caulder, or the purely comedic Cat Ballou—do they become the titular protagonists, whose actions determine the life or death of less resourceful “sperm donors.” Such is the case with Jane Hammond (played beautifully as always by Portman in a role originally intended for Karen Gillan), who is forced to roll up her sleeves after her husband is gravely wounded (Noah Emmerich, collaborating with O’Connor for the fifth time). And it’s not just about the unsanitary surgical procedures, basic nursing duties, chopping firewood, or taking care of the child, food, and homestead.

Rather, it’s about loading a shotgun bigger than she is and preparing for a bloody reckoning with the past, which—according to her beloved—is soon to catch up with them. To make things even more interesting, Jane’s unlikely ally turns out to be her former love interest, Dan (Edgerton, whose brother Nash also appears in the film). Thus, we have an unusual love triangle where every emotionally invested party has their own grievances and reasons. Swallowing their pride and gritting their teeth in the face of mortal danger becomes the first hurdle. Their cooperation—and thus, their ability to forgive past sins—is the ultimate goal.

This interplay, these torn souls, form the strongest aspect of the film, enhanced by the skillful, piece-by-piece revelation of their backstories. Unfortunately, subtlety in storytelling dwindles as the film progresses. The closer we get to the end, the more we’re bludgeoned over the head with exposition, with every last detail spelled out (including obligatory flashbacks). Yet this moral backbone and narrative structure work, keeping the audience engaged—even absorbed. Especially since we witness solid acting duels—not necessarily fireworks or Oscar-worthy performances (if that’s still a relevant argument), but certainly without major flaws.

The film’s runtime, just under a hundred minutes, could have been extended to flesh out the relationships and add more depth. However, at the heart of Jane Got a Gun, everything seems in place, and this “prairie romance” is arranged skillfully enough not to scare off die-hard cowboys while allowing cowgirls to dream a little—because why shouldn’t they? The bigger problem lies in what lurks on the periphery of this grand love story, hidden in its shadow: namely, the action-driven elements.

Despite having three distinct villains—Ewan McGregor, Boyd Holbrook, and Rodrigo Santoro (essentially reprising his Westworld persona)—they remain oddly passive in the background. Santoro makes a strong entrance and, as always, carries a convincing presence, but he’s quickly written out. Holbrook barely leaves a mark as an unhinged psychopath. Meanwhile, McGregor first delivers cartoonish grimaces, seeming too flamboyant for this type of film, before vanishing for half of it, ultimately posing more of a theoretical than actual threat to the protagonists. By the end, their capabilities and moral limits remain an enigma. There’s no full-blooded, tension-filled confrontation that audiences eagerly anticipate from the start.

Technically speaking, the film doesn’t exactly shine either. Sure, one wouldn’t expect a modestly budgeted, $25-million independent production to look like the biggest blockbuster of the season. The problem is that Jane Got a Gun lacks the kind of directorial nerve that would keep us on the edge of our seats. While the cinematography is top-notch, the visuals aren’t particularly striking. The grand, explosive finale is surprising in its sudden onset, but it’s shot in a confusing, underwhelming manner. Some scenes even look as if the filmmakers weren’t just trying to conceal budgetary constraints but were actively ashamed of their stunt and pyrotechnic work.

To make matters worse, the final minutes of the film burn—not with intensity, but with a lack of logic, inconsistent tension-building, and a painfully predictable, unnecessary happy ending. Given that most of the cast seemed to enjoy themselves on set and that some actors truly put their hearts into their performances, the end result is, at times, painfully disappointing.

That doesn’t mean it’s a bad film. The stellar cast, competent execution, and a few standout scenes make for a promising start.

Unfortunately, as the story progresses, it falters. By the time the endless list of credits rolls across the black screen, the film’s wasted potential is glaringly obvious. In 2011, its script made the Black List of Hollywood’s best unproduced screenplays, yet in the five years that followed, it endured a production hell, suffered from poor marketing (its explosive French premiere was postponed due to high-profile terrorist attacks), and ultimately flopped at the box office.

Jane may look stunning, be fearless, and know how to pull a trigger, but behind-the-scenes drama brought her to her knees. She suffers, the audience suffers, and so did the career of Scottish director Lynne Ramsay. Instead of a hefty paycheck and a potential Hollywood breakthrough, she got slapped with a lawsuit from the studio—a move that likely killed her enthusiasm for such projects and made her female peers even more wary of the genre. The Wild West remains firmly a man’s domain in cinema, where, apparently, the more one-eyed creators there are, the better the films.