3:10 to Nausea… A better title for 3:10 to Yuma would have been Unforgiven Redux, as once again we get the postmodern Western treatment with Christian Bale as a one-legged failure who hasn't fucked his wife in years and whose only comfort is indulgent self-pity.  In place of life as it was lived or simply a rousing story, the audience is led through a rote series of "deconstructions" of genre and character formulated by some hack screenwriter who is pissy all the time about who fucking cares.

Due to a ridiculous series of events too boring to relate here even in summary form, Bale is asked to help escort a stagecoach robber played by Russell Crowe to Yuma to be tried and hanged.  Crowe is the Western version of Hannibal Lecter, a superhuman ruffian who is cultured, artistic, witty, sensual, a great hit with the ladies,* and the fastest, deadest shot in the West.  And so very politically correct – when questioned about all the men he's killed and families he's destroyed, Crowe replies with all the sanctimony of a faggot screenwriter about the horrible injustices done to the Red Man.

This dynamic rascal couldn't be more different than the one-legged rancher, right?  But wait you're so wrong, the cripple and the ruffian end up forming a deep bond because the cripple is sad that his son doesn't respect him.

This is no joke:  Crowe actually stops in the middle of choking Bale to death as Bale blubbers his dark secret (that he lost his leg by turning tail in battle and getting shot by someone on his own side).  Deeply moved by this incontinent confession, Crowe resolves right there that he's going to make a hero out of Bale by marching onboard that train through a hail of bullets if he has to.  As preposterous as that sounds, it only gets worse, reaching an apotheosis of eye-rolling contrivance as Crowe shoots down his entire gang in a confused effort to patch up Bale's father-son relationship.

Bale has one good line, "For making me nervous," but everything else he says makes you want to punch him in the face.  Go back to playing psychos, Bale, you suck as a pussy suffering in silence.

If you like this movie and you are a guy then I'm sorry but you are quite simply gay and should have rented Brokeback Mountain instead.  What is the point of reinventing Westerns and filling them with pussies and cardboard villains (Crowe of course isn't the real villain, he is the cultured antihero; the real villains are garden variety bounty hunters and crooked lawmen who just want to turn in Crowe for the money).

Naturally the critics slurp up all this postmodern faggotry.  The only part I liked was a cameo by Luke Wilson as a Chinaman-busting railroad guy, a first for Wilson in that at no point do you hear him creak like old floorboards.