Director George Stevens’ Texas-size ode to the home state of George W. Bush and the Dixie Chicks is one of those epic movies called classic mostly because of its girth and age–and because James Dean costarred in it. The fact is, even now that it’s been gussied up with a disc’s worth of documentaries and old newsreels, Stevens’ adaptation of Edna Ferber’s novel about old Lone Star money never really amounts to much–in spite of its classy, Scarlett-and-Rhettish first half, and all those genuinely striking images of galloping horses, gushing oil, and drunken brawls in the liquor cellar. Morality tale? Sorta. Love story? Hardly. Classic? Forget about it.