If ever a genre was meant to appear, cloud, clear — then cloud again — it's the Western. Since it's birth, this most cinematic of forms has been chalked-up as storytelling scavenger, dusted, and left for dead, all ‘round the same campfire; only to see the most majestic of practitioners defending its frontier as reflector of morality, spinner of spirituality, and builder of fences around the seemingly unfence-ible [sic]. Unconvinced? Give a legend a shot — he has the pelts. Walter Hill digs up his unbreakable solace in the singularity pure/impure Western form; and, for no good measure, unearths a personal walk-through of its master gatekeepers, of which is he is a last artist standing.