To belong to the Eastwood family and star in a western is to inevitably invite comparison to a certain Man With No Name, and, in Diablo, young Scott can't help but fall short of his father's mighty mark. Not that he's done many favors by the material: Lawrence Roeck's post–Civil War tale of a troubled veteran hunting down the Mexican gang that kidnapped his wife is passable but familiar, a sort of Low Plains Drifter. The talk's nothing special, but screenwriter Carlos De Los Rios (working from a story by Roeck) wisely relies on the scowling laconicism that the movies have long imagined as key to the antiheroes of this vet's era.
This includes Walton Goggins as a self-appointed tollkeeper with a penchant for killing and monologuing ("Only thing I enjoy more than killing a man is watching a man die all by himself," he says as a statement of purpose). Diablo gets considerably more compelling once it gets weird -- its eccentricities include a sweat-lodge-induced flashback to wartime trauma and a third-act heel turn that, while not especially logical, is lively nevertheless. All in all they make for the kind of movie your stepdad would mention having seen on Netflix a few days back but have trouble remembering the name of. (He'd probably think it was pretty good, though.)