Harrigan’s fondness for deflating pomposity inspires some of his best scenes, such as the moment, just before the fighting starts, when the American commander Col. William Travis fires a cannon blast. It was his way, he said, “of telling the Mexicans that we do not intend to surrender.” Then “Travis stood there as if waiting for a roaring chorus of approval, but most of the defenders seemed unnerved by the sudden cannon blast, and others… were too far away to hear their commander and were turning to each other with puzzled expressions.” That’s funnyand believable.
But Harrigan wastes little ink and less respect on Alamo all-stars Travis, Jim Bowie or Davy Crockett. He concentrates instead on fictional characters caught up in a struggle not of their own making–an American naturalist, a female innkeeper and her son, Mexican soldiers. Putting their stories in the foreground, Harrigan makes us care afresh about this shopworn tale, even as he debunks the mythology around it. The result is a genuinely moving epic and, paradoxically, yet another unforgettable Alamo.
