This shotgun wedding between Shakespearean tragedy and movie Western would be intriguing if it weren't so hopelessly mannered. The strongest elements are the production design, which evokes a sort of baroque dustbowl frontier, and Jack Conroy's cinematography, which gives the proceedings an appropriately dessicated air. As for the actors, despite the presence of Alan Bates and Richard Harris, the strongest performances come from lesser-known talents Sheila Tousey and Jeri Arredondo. It's simply too hard, however, to swallow River Phoenix in cowboy drag pining away for his dead, exploited Indian wife while her ghost spits epithets at him from underneath Fright Night makeup. And it's simply too boring watching various characters squabble endlessly, no matter how poetic writer/director Sam Shepard's dialogue. In the end, Silent Tongue wants to be a weighty meditation about reparation and revenge, but even art-house audiences may find it more weighty than meditative. One of the last things Phoenix completed before his death, the film sat on the shelf for two years before receiving a miniscule theatrical release. That its producers didn't think they could use it as a vehicle for grief-inspired profits is a tribute to the film's obtuseness. Ambitious from start to finish, though, it's a noble failure.