*None of the guns produce any smoke that you could notice.

*An outlaw burns to death inside a stagecoach without making a sound. No “Gee, fellas, it’s getting hot in here,” or “Could someone open the door please?” Not a peep.

*A Pinkerton man gets shot in the stomach point blank with a .44 Schofield. He’s hauled into town where a veterinarian takes out the bullet and he doesn’t make a peep. Then he’s up, and walking and riding, no more inconvenienced than you or I would be after overindulging at Taco Bell. The only thing that keeps him from making a complete recovery is Russell Crowe, who throws him off a cliff. Or maybe he bounced and walked away.

*An armored (!) stagecoach carrying a payroll and a Gatling gun is being pulled by a four-horse team at a fine rate of knots. In real life, it took a four-horse team just to pull a Gatling gun.

*As this stagecoach is tearing along at 25 mph, a sinister Hispanic sniper shoots at it from 500 yards with what looks like a Sharps, equipped with a scope with a modern reticle. He picks off the guys working the Gatling with the greatest of ease.

*The shotgun guard on the coach, who is using a hammer shotgun, doesn’t know you have to cock the hammers. This is the same guy who gets shot in the gut a little later, so there may be some connection.

*Christian Bale plays a former Union Sharpshooter who lost a leg in the War of Northern Agression. This notwithstanding, he jumps off a building, rolls, and proceeds to run like a damn deer.

And so on, and so forth. The high point of the film for me was a young actor named Ben Foster, who plays a stone killer named Charlie Prince. Charlie Prince is the best stone killer since Jack Palance played Jack Wilson in Shane, and that was 50-plus years ago. And Russell Crowe is charming, and the gunfight at the end is worth it.

On balance, 3:10 to Yuma is worth the price of admission. But leave your brains in the lobby.