Search the Western Clippings Site

An Interview With…
        - Archives

Will "Sugarfoot" Hutchins
    - January 2017
    - December 2016
    - October 2016
    - September 2016
    - August 2016
    - July 2016
    - May 2016
    - March 2016
    - February 2016
    - January 2016
    - December 2015
    - November 2015
    - September 2015
    - August 2015
    - July 2015
    - May 2015
    - April 2015
    - March 2015
    - February 2015
    - January 2015
    - December 2014
    - November 2014
    - October 2014
    - September 2014
    - August 2014
    - July 2014
    - May 2014
    - April 2014
    - March 2014
    - February 2014
    - January 2014
    - December 2013
    - November 2013
    - October 2013
    - September 2013
    - August 2013
    - July 2013
    - June 2013
    - May 2013
    - April 2013
    - March 2013
    - February 2013
    - January 2013
    - December 2012
    - November 2012
    - October 2012
    - September 2012
    - August 2012
    - July 2012
    - June 2012
    - May 2012
    - April 2012
    - March 2012
    - February 2012
    - January 2012
    - December 2011
    - November 2011
    - October 2011
    - August 2011
    - July 2011
    - June 2011
    - May 2011
    - April 2011
    - March 2011
    - February 2011
    - January 2011
    - December 2010
    - November 2010
    - October 2010
    - September 2010
    - August 2010
    - July 2010
    - June 2010
    - May 2010
    - April 2010
    - March 2010
    - February 2010
    - January 2010
    - December 2009
    - November 2009
    - October 2009
    - September 2009
    - August 2009
    - July 2009
    - June 2009
    - May 2009
    - April 2009
    - March 2009
    - February 2009
    - January 2009
    - December 2008
    - November 2008
    - September 2008
    - August 2008
    - June 2008
    - April 2008
    - March 2008
    - February 2008

Do You Remember?
    - Archives

Comic Book Cowboys
    - Archives

Westerns of...
    - Archives

Heavies and Characters
      - Archives

The Stuntmen - Neil Summers
    - Archives

Western Treasures
    - Archives

Western Artifacts
    - Archives

Film Festival Fotos
    - Archives

Silent Western Reviews
    - Archives

Serial Report
    - Archives

Research & Consulting

Subscribe to Western Clippings

Other Western Links

COLLECTIBLES FOR SALE:

Western Clippings Back Issues

Serial Report Back Issues

Daily Comic Strips

Sunday Comic Strips

Books

Miscellaneous Collectibles

Lobby Cards

Laser Copies of Lobby Cards

Movie Posters

Home

OCTOBER 2009

“Hello, the camp!” called a deep voice from the already darkened woods. “Hello, yourself!” Peter called back as he stirred the campfire. “Come-on in!” “Rider coming in,” answered the man’s voice, as horse and rider emerged from the sea of darkness into the light like a babe from baptismal waters.

“Just in time. I’m fixing dinner. There’s food and water over there for your horse. Get him settled and come join me.” The rider unsaddled his horse and, holding out his hand as he approached the fire, said, “I’m Bob.” “Peter,” said the cowboy, offering his own hand. “Have a seat. Like something to drink?” “Coffee sure smells good. Wouldn’t happen to have any whiskey on you, would you? Sure could use a real drink.” Peter reached into his large saddle bag and pulled out a silver shaker and a glass. “Just happen to have a Tangeray martini. That do ya?” “Double.” Peter shook and poured the martini and handed the glass to Bob. “Cheers,” Bob said, and took a long pull on the drink.

“What are you cooking for dinner?” “What do you love?” “Well-done steak, mashed potatoes and corn-on-the-cob.” “You’re in luck; that’s just what I’m cooking.” “Hot-damn!” “Careful.”

After dinner, they settled back to talk. Bob lit-up his ninth cigarette for the evening. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and began talking as he exhaled, mildly surprised that he didn’t cough. “Funny thing, Peter. I’m sitting here with you, and it seems to be the most natural thing in the world. Thing is, I can’t remember where I’ve been or where I’m going.” “That bother you?” Bob laughed, releasing a cloud of smoke, “No, not really. Life’s an adventure. It’s the ‘not remembering’ that bothers me. That, and finding you out here with drink, dinner, everything just perfect. Strange. What are you doing here?” “Waiting for you…”

“Hello, the camp! Rider coming in!” called a voice from the darkness. “You’re welcome! Come-on in!” Peter called back. “And I’m waiting for him.” The new rider rode into the campfire light. Bob recognized him immediately and rose to his feet. “Food and water for your horse over there. Come join us when you’re done,” said Peter. “Th…Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” said the rider and turned to care for his horse.

“Jimmy? That you?” questioned Bob. Jimmy turned. “Well, Bob Mitchum! Wha…what brings you out here?” They shook hands, then embraced. “Someone told me…jus…just this morning, you were dead!” “Holy Jesus!” said Bob. “Careful,” said Peter. “I think I am!” “Then…I…I must be, too,” said Jimmy. “Peter, this is my friend, Jimmy Stewart. Jimmy, this is Peter.” The two shook hands. “Pleased to meet ya,” said Jimmy. “You have a last name?” “Most call me St. Peter, but here, I just like ‘Peter’. Let’s get you taken care of, then we can get some rest. We’ll get up early. I like riding into the morning light.”

Robert Mitchum

Awhile back, Babs and I wrote to Christopher Mitchum, sharing our sorrow over the passin’ thru of his dad. “Rider Coming In” is his beautiful response.

Long before “Sugarfoot”, when I was a delivery boy in downtown L.A. during Christmas school breaks, I’d pray for rain. With the collar of my battered raincoat pulled up, my slouch hat pulled low, I’d walk down Broadway, stealing glances of my tough guy image reflected in store windows. I was Bob Mitchum on a caper, emerging out of the past, disappearing into the fog, meeting my fate head on with a wry smile and my best friend, John Roscoe, in my pocket. If a man don’t go his own way he’s nothin.’

To me, Bob was more of a humanist, a philosopher with deep Irish humor, than an actor. He seemed to say in each role, “Nothing matters all that much. And most things don’t matter at all!” The consummate pro, he placed himself at the service of his co-workers and the story. He knew the picture was the star. Always has been. His style was practically invisible and practically universal. How moving and happy to watch him get better and better, year after year, learning and working. He is one of our best actors and human beings. An Irish poem by W. B. Yeats reminds me of Bob: “Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not persuade, which does not condescend, which does not explain—is irresistible.” Bob is irresistible. Here’s lookin’ at ya, Bob. I never met a Mitchum I didn’t like…                                   Adios!