Sam Peckinpah's Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid

When maverick filmmaker Sam Peckinpah submitted his 1973 western Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid to MGM for release, the troubled studio was in the midst of a catastrophic shakeup. James Aubrey, a former television executive, had taken the reins and had initiated a policy that caused the studio to turn away from the big-budget vehicles that helped earn its motto, "More stars than there are in the heavens," in favor of undistinguished vehicles populated by lesser names. Many films, including those produced under the previous regime, were severely altered, chopped up beyond recognition by studio lackeys without the cooperation of the directors. Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid was one film so victimized.

The follow-up to Peckinpah’s biggest box-office hit, the exciting, if conventional, Steve McQueen-Ali Macgraw teaming, The Getaway, Peckinpah’s long awaited western made it to theaters in a version dramatically different from Peckinpah’s vision. Scenes were shifted, other scenes were chopped out completely, and the music score by Bob Dylan, whose role of Alias marked his film acting debut, was played up beyond what Peckinpah originally intended. This mangled version of the story of the west’s most famous outlaw was panned by the majority of critics and ignored by audiences.

The only winner turned out to be Dylan, whose album of the score proved a hit, spawning the top 20 single, "Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door," one of his most popular compositions.

In the early 90’s, after Peckinpah’s death, the film was restored to compliment his original vision and summarily released on home video. Some twenty minutes longer that the 103 minute edition that played theatrically in 1973, the result still leaves much to be desired.

The film opens with a dialogue between the title characters that seems to have been partly inspired by the presence of Dylan in the cast.

"How does it feel?" Billy asks his former friend Pat Garrett, quoting the famous refrain of "Like a Rolling Stone."

"It feels like times have changed," Garrett replies, paraphrasing the title of another famous Dylan anthem.

Either version of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid suggests that, for Peckinpah, the times had indeed changed, and not for the better. He seems to have lost his ability to effectively tell a story. The film meanders from one lifeless scene to another, all too casually following Garrett’s pursuit of his former friend and, now, enemy. The lead performers, James Coburn as Garrett and Kris Kristofferson as Billy, are entirely too low-key to create much interest in their conflict, and though there’s plenty of the director’s trademark violence, most of it just leaves one feeling indifferent, quite a contrast to the outrage that greeted the bloodbaths in Peckinpah’s masterpiece, The Wild Bunch or 1971’s Straw Dogs.

Dylan’s mostly instrumental score, obtrusive in the mangled 1973 version, is now so toned down that it is barely noticeable. Worse, the vocal rendition of "Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door," very prominent in 1973 and the only consistent point of interest in that version, has been scrapped completely, robbing the film of what little emotional power it had.

If Dylan’s music merits praise, his acting is of little consequence. He hangs around, more often than not in the background, utters a few insignificant lines of dialogue, and looks as charmingly awkward as Elvis Presley did in Love Me Tender. Dylan’s big scene is one in which he is humiliated by Garrett who instructs the "boy" to read the labels off the canned foods in a grocery store. "Pork and beans...beef stew," the legendary songwriter reads, enunciating in a way that makes him sound like one of his imitators. It’s intriguing to watch one of rock and roll’s most literate and intelligent practitioners reduced to such silliness, but little else about his appearance offers much of interest.

No western fan can complain about the rest of the cast, though, which is populated by enough familiar faces to qualify Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid as a veritable tribute to the genre: Jack Elam, Paul Fix, Elisha Cook, Jr., R.G. Armstrong, Dub Taylor, Chill Wills, Katy Jurado, Slim Pickens (whose death scene provides the film’s only memorable moment), Gene Evans, Harry Dean Stanton, Barry Sullivan, L.Q. Jones, and Richard Jaeckal all pop up, and to make the cast all the more interesting there’s Jason Robards as Governor Lew Wallace and singer Rita Coolidge to be glimpsed, as well. In the end, however, nothing can prevent Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid from escaping its reputation as a misfire and a boring one at that. Violent it may be, but unlike previous Peckinpah efforts, it lacks blood from anywhere but the special effects department.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© 1999 Brian W. Fairbanks



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Howard Hughes' The Outlaw: A western for boobs and their admirers

The Outlaw wasn’t made in 3D but if the technology existed in 1941, the year it was filmed, it probably would have been. Howard Hughes, the eccentric billionaire who produced and directed, took such care in photographing Jane Russell’s ample breasts--designing a special bra and lighting them so the shadows fell perfectly along each curve--that they sometimes resemble the opening credits in 1978’s Superman, you know, they come flying out at you. Other than Woody Allen’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex in which a giant mammary played a role, I can think of no other mainstream movie in which a woman’s chest provided such inspiration for the director. Because of Russell’s bosom, The Outlaw was considered too racy for 1943 audiences, and it was shelved for general release until 1947 when it sold tickets due more to its notoriety than entertainment value.

Russell’s attributes aside, The Outlaw concerns Sheriff Pat Garrett (Thomas Mitchell) and his pursuit of Billy the Kid. The foreboding music that accompanies Hughes’ introduction of Garrett gives a hint as to where our director’s sympathies lie. It seems everyone’s sympathies are with the legendary outlaw rather than the lawman who shot him down. When Garrett’s old friend, Doc Holliday (Walter Huston) pays a visit, his horse is stolen. Despite damning evidence that the Kid is the thief--after all, he is now riding the horse--Doc, rather than express anger, takes an instant and unexplained liking to the famed outlaw. When Billy punches out Garrett, Doc seems amused, and when Garrett tries to arrest Billy for the theft of the horse, Holliday, who initially offers his help, backs out, valuing his new acquaintance with the Kid more than his long friendship with Garrett.

The rest of the movie finds the Kid moving in on Doc’s half-breed honey (Russell) with Doc encouraging the relationship and even offering the Kid advice on courtship. Meanwhile, Garrett remains in pursuit, capturing the Kid more than once, but never quite succeeding in getting the best of him.

There is an annoyingly whimsical score by Victor Young that seems determined to point out when a scene is supposed to be amusing (none of them are), and acting that ranges from poor to disastrous. Huston, normally a great character actor, grates on the nerves with his supposedly amusing and wise depiction of Holliday. As portrayed here, there is nothing amusing or wise about the man. He betrays his friend and contentedly watches him be humiliated at the hands of an outlaw whose appeal, as portrayed by Jack Beutel, is a mystery. Beutel is as animated as a still photograph, underdeveloped and out of focus, lacking charm or any other attractive trait. Poor Thomas Mitchell looks foolish in his ten gallon hat, and is treated like a fool throughout. As for Russell, her bosoms perform admirably, more so than the rest of her.

Jules Furthman’s screenplay presents Billy the Kid as a misunderstood but decent kid which is probably the way the loony Hughes saw himself. As a director, he’s certainly no Howard Hawks (who supposedly worked on the film uncredited), and though he may be a tad more professional that Ed Wood, he fails to be as entertaining. The one competent craftsman on board is Gregg Toland whose cinematography is on a level that the rest of the movie fails to reach.

The Outlaw is strictly a western for boobs (pun intended), and their admirers.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© Copyright 1999 Brian W. Fairbanks


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Cindy Crawford in Fair Game

Cindy Crawford is certainly beautiful, but her acting isn’t too leggy in Fair Game, a silly thriller in which the world’s most famous supermodel is cast as a lawyer who becomes embroiled in international intrigue. All it takes is the name of William Baldwin in the credits to realize this is a strictly second rate effort. After all, who would cast the chin deficient younger brother of Alec in anything of quality?

Crawford is the only reason to see Fair Game. Her long, wavy tresses, and her shapely frame, often encased in tight jeans and a tank top, would probably steal the show even if the script involving Russian spies wasn’t so silly, but silly it is so the film becomes nothing more than a print ad come to life.

Crawford has one decent scene, although her delivery of the dialogue is strictly amateur night. In a computer store, the lovely model flirts with a nerdy clerk and the two exchange sexual innuendo.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Just fiddling with my joystick," he replies.

"Fiddling with your joystick?" she asks with a smile.

He then asks her whether she’s interested in hardware or software.

"Hardware" is the word that escapes from her luscious lips.

Watching Crawford, the straight male viewer may be tempted to fiddle with his own joystick, and if he assigns a grade to Fair Game before doing so, it would rank right up there with Citizen Kane as one of the greatest films ever. Afterward, once his hardware has gone soft and he’s able to think clearly again, he’d see it for what it is: a perfectly ordinary action movie containing the standard ingredients for the genre: car chases, a lot of breathless running to escape from enemy agents, and, of course, lots and lots of loud explosions, none of them as explosive as the star, though. She sure is a babe, but, otherwise, Fair Game is just dumb.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© 1999 Brian W. Fairbanks



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Cape Fear (1962/1991)

Providing you’ve seen both the original 1962 version of Cape Fear and Martin Scorcese’s 1991 remake, it’s impossible not to compare them. The original, directed by J. Lee Thompson, the hack who guided Charles Bronson through most of his grade B action flicks in the 80s, is more straight-forward, lacking the surrealistic touches that Scorcese adds to dress up this simple tale of revenge.

In Cape Fear take one, Gregory Peck plays Sam Bowden, an attorney from a small Florida town who witnesses a vicious rape committed by Max Cady (Robert Mitchum) while visiting Baltimore. Bowden testifies against Cady and the brutal thug is sentenced to eight years in prison.

When he is released, the bitter Cady stalks Bowden, his wife (Polly Bergen) and daughter (Lori Martin), but is always clever and careful enough not to violate the law. Bowden enlists the aid of a local police chief (Martin Balsam) and a private detective (TellySavalas) but none of his efforts to harass Cady prove successful. A desperate Bowden even hires thugs to beat the unrepentant ex-con to a bloody pulp but Cady gives as good as he gets, and one of the thugs blows the whistle on Bowden’s involvement which leads to his disbarment. The film climaxes with a deadly cat and mouse game pitting Bowden and his family against the sadistic Cady who follows them on vacation to the bayous.

The original Cape Fear is an effective black and white thriller with a chilling score by the great Bernard Herrmann and an outstanding performance from Robert Mitchum, one of the few Hollywood stars of the time who would have consented to being cast as a vicious rapist who even preys upon Bowden’s teenage daughter. Mitchum is more impressive than Robert DeNiro in the remake, creating an aura of absolute evil without the aid of the bizarre camera work that contributes much to DeNiro’s twisted portrayal.

The remake is technically superior and, due to the more permissive climate of 1991, less certain as to who represents corruption, Cady or the supposedly upstanding Bowden. Scorcese’s 1991 remake starts off well with the psychotic Cady laughing obnoxiously and smoking a cigar as he watches John Ritter cavort across a movie theater screen in the banal comedy Problem Child. Cady is at the theater to begin his harassment of Bowden who is also in attendance with his family. Bowden, in a twist on the original, is a public defender who represented Cady fourteen years earlier in a statutory rape case but, believing Cady was guilty of a particularly vicious crime, withheld information about the teenage victim’s "promiscuity."

Now Cady wants revenge. This story, a simple tale of good versus evil, is given more complexity here by turning Cady’s prey into a deeply flawed man who, in addition to his unethical treatment of his client, is also an unfaithful husband with little influence over his morally dubious 15-year-old daughter (Juliette Lewis). Still, he does not deserve to experience the nightmare into which his family is plunged.
Scorcese’s Cape Fear conveys the unbalanced state of Cady’s mind by photographing him at wildly off-balanced angles, all of which conspire with DeNiro’s performance to make Cady a genuine monster, one of almost inhuman strength and resilience. As Bowden, Nolte is properly vulnerable as a man who has broken the law but has limits to his immorality. He is still too moral to meet Cady on equal ground. Jessica Lange as his suffering wife, Joe Don Baker as a private detective, and especially Juliette Lewis are all fine in supporting roles, but it’s DeNiro's and Nolte’s show all the way.

Unfortunately, this tightly crafted thriller falls apart long before the end as Cady survives far too many brushes with death to be believed, although a "brush" with death is hardly an apt description of a man’s being set on fire. Yes, Cady is set ablaze but is back, minus some skin and hair, to continue his terrorism only minutes later. It’s a fairly laughable episode unless you see it, as I do, as a surrealistic companion to the film that inspired it.

Cady did not terrorize Bowden with quite as much ghoulish glee in 1962, but he put his prey through enough horror that it would be understandable if Bowden suffered nightmares long afterward. If so, Scorcese’s remake could serve as the filmed account of an episode from Bowden’s dark dream world. In this nightmare, Cady, much more than a sadist, is the devil himself, a near cannibal who takes joy in the corruption of Bowden’s daughter, and whose cigar smoke is so thick and poisonous that it could have only originated in Hell itself. After being set on fire, Cady resembles Freddy Krueger, the dream generated psycho of the Nightmare on Elm Street series, and seems to be just as indestructible. Because of this unbelievable turn of events, one has to approach this remake as a horrific dream from the anxious mind of Sam Bowden as played 29 years earlier by Gregory Peck. Otherwise, this Cape Fear, can only be seen as a joke.

The most intriguing aspect of the 1991 version is the way it pays homage to its source by dusting off Bernard Hermann’s excellent score in a newly recorded version by Elmer Bernstein, and by filling the cast with three performers from the original. Gregory Peck returns as a lawyer who represents Cady after Bowden had him beaten by a trio of punks; Mitchum takes over Martin Balsam’s role as the police chief; and Balsam inherits Ed Platt’s gavel as the judge. One wishes Scorcese had found room for Telly Savalas whose private detective is reborn in the person of the more hirsute Joe Don Baker.

But for all its state of the art technical skill and excellent performances, somehow this Cape Fear falls short of the original which itself misses the mark as a classic. It panders to an audience that finds mere suspense boring unless it is augmented by blood and brutality.

Scorcese made this film for Universal, a studio he once refused to work for until they wooed him with the promise to produce his pet project, the artistically brave but commercially foolish The Last Temptation of Christ. Perhaps Cape Fear was Scorcese’s way of thanking the studio for their support, and also a way to strengthen his own box-office power. Whatever his motives, what we have is neither artistic nor brave, but pure commercial filmmaking aimed right at the most mainstream audience imaginable. That alone makes his Cape Fear a nightmare.

For all its faults, Scorcese’s Cape Fear nonetheless demonstrates that a good story can weather the years and be adapted to reflect its times. What has changed is not so much the personnel, but the audience. Whatever horrors Robert Mitchum represented in 1962 were left to the imagination of the viewer whereas DeNiro’s crimes are trotted out before the no longer startled eyes of a cynical public that has been assaulted by so much mayhem on screen in the 29 year interim, that nothing, not even the sight of DeNiro chewing on and then spitting out a woman’s flesh, can affect their appetite for popcorn. The only thing that can shock us today is the price of the ticket.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© 1999 Brian W. Fairbanks



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Coyote Ugly: Flashdance Revisited

"Why is it called Coyote Ugly?" a visitor to the bar of that name asks Lil, the assertive blonde who owns the establishment.

"Cheers was already taken," she says, referring to the long-running American sitcom set in a Boston tavern.
The name Flashdance was already taken too, but Coyote Ugly could almost qualify as a remake of that 1983 blockbuster. Both films were produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, now best known for loud action films like Top Gun and The Rock. Both films boast an energetic soundtrack you can dance to. And both are essentially fairy tales in modern dress that exploit female sexuality while pretending to promote female empowerment.

Flashdance was the story of a girl who worked as a welder by day and an exotic dancer by night while dreaming of the day when she would pass the audition required for admittance to a prestigious dance school. In Coyote Ugly, we have Violet Sanford (Piper Perabo). Squeaky clean and squeaky voiced, she's a wide eyed innocent who leaves her New Jersey home for New York City where she hopes to find fame and fortune as a songwriter. Violet never considers the possibility of also performing her songs because she's been led to believe that stage fright runs in her family. The inability to face a crowd of strangers is apparently what prevented her late mother from realizing her dream of a performing career.

Once Violet reaches New York, she trucks her songs from one disinterested record company to another. One night while dejectedly eating apple pie in a diner, she observes a trio of beautiful women counting money at a nearby table.
"We made $300 each tonight," one boasts to another.

Judging them by their sexy attire, Violet assumes the women are prostitutes. She soon learns they are the staff at Coyote Ugly, a bar where they flaunt their stuff in tight halter-tops and leather pants while performing wild stunts on the bar. One of the coyotes, Rachel (Bridget Moynahan), is nicknamed "The Flame" in honor of her habit of setting fire to the bar, then dancing across it.

Our wide-eyed innocent is woefully out of place in this rowdy environment, but the bar's no-nonsense owner, Lil (Maria Bello), hires her anyway. It takes Violet awhile to establish herself as Coyote material, but her more assertive co-workers soon bring out the confidence she'll need to succeed as a Coyote, confidence that will also serve her well in realizing her dream to sing her own songs. Along the way, Violet finds time for romance with an Australian fry cook who collects comic books, and to visit her worried father on weekends.

Of all the moments in Coyote Ugly, the only ones that ring true involve John Goodman as Violet's concerned father. He provides the film with whatever heart it has, and also provides most of its intentional humor. But nothing is likely to provoke laughter (of the unintentional sort) quite as well as the ludicrous finale, which includes an appearance by country singer Leann Rhymes.

As far as sex goes, Coyote Ugly is as much of a tease as the women who populate it. "Look available, but don't be available," Lil orders her employees. The women are sexy, but the movie has virtually no sex, and, surprisingly, no profanity, unusual in an age when movie characters tend to be as foul mouthed as a rap singer. The movie is old-fashioned in other ways, too. The romance between Violet and the fry cook is as saccharine as a Doris Day movie, while most of the music is more than a decade old. At one point, the filmmakers go all the way back to 1961 for Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling In Love" for a scene in which Violet dances with her father at a wedding.

Shallow, silly, and surprisingly tame, Coyote Ugly is so slight that it tends to drift from the mind even as you watch it. Despite that, it is entertaining in its own empty and stupid way.

Brian W. Fairbanks

Originally published at Paris Woman Journal
© 2000 Brian W. Fairbanks


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Thirteen Days that shook the world

The world has yet to fight a nuclear war, and, with a lot of luck and a little wisdom, it never will. But in October 1962, we came close. It was then that reconnaissance photos revealed that the Soviet Union had engineered a massive buildup of nuclear missiles in Cuba, only 90 miles from their intended target: the United States. Thirteen Days takes us back to those two weeks when a young American president's mettle was put to the test, leaving the fate of the world resting precariously on his shoulders.

The president was John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the handsome Irishman perceived as a weakling by Soviet leader Nikita Kruschev. With the fiasco of the Bay of Pigs invasion of 1961 still hanging in the White House air like the scent of sizzling bacon, Kennedy was vulnerable. But Thirteen Days suggests that the real showdown was between Kennedy and his own Joint Chiefs of Staff who shared Kruschev's belief that Kennedy was "too liberal to fight." At the first sign that the U.S.S.R. is encroaching on American turf, the generals are itching for war. A reluctant Kennedy turns to his inner circle for support, including his brother, Robert Kennedy, the Attorney General.

Another major player on the Kennedy team is Kenny O' Donnell (Kevin Costner), Robert's former roommate at Harvard and now a political advisor to the president. There appears to be some question as to how significant a role the real O' Donnell played in the crisis, but he's present primarily to bear witness to the events for the audience. Through his eyes we see the backstage bickering between the Kennedy staff and the generals, the negotiations with the media to keep the crisis under wraps, and the fear in the eyes of the best and the brightest as they are confronted with the threat of World War III. And we see the Kennedys, not as icons or martyrs, but as flesh and blood human figures, sometimes confident, often doubtful.

Of course, we know how it all turned out. On October 22, 1962 in an address to the nation, President Kennedy went public with the crisis that brought the world, in his words, to the "abyss of destruction." He ordered a blockade of Cuba and promised that the U.S. would treat an attack from the island of Castro as an attack by the Soviet Union. Kennedy assured the Soviets that the U.S. would, indeed, pay any price and bear any burden by responding with its full power. These threats and some clever diplomacy averted World War III.

It's a tribute to the craftsmanship of the filmmakers that such old news can whip up a good deal of excitement and suspense. Director Roger Donaldson and writer David Self tell the story with a minimum of fuss. This straightforward unpretentious approach adds to the nostalgic glow of the piece.

Most of the actors appear to have been cast because of their physical resemblance to the real life figures they portray. In some cases, namely Dylan Baker's Robert McNamara and Michael Fairman's Adlai Stevenson, the resemblance is uncanny. Kevin Costner looks nothing like the real Kenny O' Donnell, and probably doesn't sound like him either. Playing a man who is a household name in no one's home but his own, Costner didn't need to adopt a Boston accent. Hearing him pronounce car as "cah" distracts from an otherwise sincere performance.

As the only "star" in the cast, Costner gets top billing, but commendably steps aside to let co-stars Bruce Greenwood and Steven Culp take center stage. Many fine actors have let the Kennedy brothers get the best of them. Relying too heavily on the hair and the accent, they've let their characterizations fall prey to caricature. As John and Robert respectively, Greenwood and Culp do themselves proud, never hitting a false note as they bring these legendary statesmen to life with their intellect and charisma intact. Greenwood, in particular, is so good that it would do his performance a disservice to praise it with the usual cliches ("It has Oscar written all over it"). When critics speak of a "seamless" performance, this is what they're supposed to be describing.

A history lesson that will keep you awake, Thirteen Days is intelligent without being dull, exciting without being stupid, and perfect family entertainment without being insipid. Above all else, it is a tribute to the Kennedy brothers, John and Robert. At a time when we are only too familiar with their faults, some observers may question the reverential treatment they are given here. These aren't the spoiled rich kids of the tabloid headlines and the tell-all books, but men of intellect, compassion and courage who are wise in their knowledge that peace can be preserved without bloodshed. As the film ends, the camera follows their shadows looming large against the backdrop of the White House as if to suggest that, in another time, giants did, indeed, walk among us, and our world is diminished by their absence.

In these more cynical times, when the U.S. presidential election is a choice between the lesser of two evils and the outcome is known only after endless reports about "hanging chads," this positive approach to history is inspiring. The Kennedy brothers may not have been giants, but Thirteen Days makes a convincing case that they stood taller than most of our leaders today.

Brian W. Fairbanks

Originally published at Paris Woman Journal
© 2001 Brian W. Fairbanks





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Five Easy Pieces: The pieces are greater than the whole

Reviewing Five Easy Pieces for The New York Times in 1970, Roger Greenspun said “I’m not sure how Five Easy Pieces will seem in retrospect – perhaps not that good.” I don’t know how Greenspun would feel about the movie now, but watching it recently I find it has held up nicely through the decades, though its power has diminished a bit with age.

I first saw Five Easy Pieces on TV, sometime around 1976, but was familiar with its most famous scene even earlier. That scene – which scene? Oh, come on, you know which scene – is still a keeper thanks to Jack Nicholson’s slow burn delivery (“You have bread, don’t you, and a toaster of some kind?”). The “diner scene” has had a life of its own, and is an absolute must in any “Great Moments in Cinema” compilation. Still, it was more effective in the ‘70s when Nicholson’s tirade could be seen as a reaction against Vietnam, the Nixon administration, and any other target of the counterculture, rather than a restaurant’s rules about strict adherence to its menu.

Nicholson’s character – Robert Dupea – is a rebel, but what is he rebelling against? Family expectations, mainly. The product of an affluent family of classical musicians, he has squandered his talent, which we suspect may be minimal, anyway, in a series of odd, mostly blue collar jobs. He’s shacked up with a country music loving waitress played by Karen Black, who accompanies him when he returns home to visit his dying father. He’s protective of her, but also a little ashamed. While he attempts to reconnect with his family, he keeps her hidden in a nearby motel. After several days with no word from her beau, she arrives at the remote house, “a rest home,” as Dupea calls it due to its isolated location and the cloistered lives of the inhabitants. She’s treated respectfully enough, but when a female guest pontificates on life, she’s bored and mentions her “fluffy little kitten” that was “squashed” to death. This leads the pontificator to pontificate about the “juxtaposition” of words. Dupea, who has been shifting uncomfortably in his seat, loses his temper. “You’re full of shit,” he says. “You’re all full of shit!”

And so they are.

Dupea is full of something else - resentment and rage - and after a fumbled attempt at a sexual encounter with his brother’s wife, turns his back on both his past and present by hitching a ride with a trucker while his girlfriend uses a gas station’s restroom. He doesn’t even bother taking his coat, an overt symbol of his decision to abandon everything and start life from scratch or, perhaps, to reject it completely.

Directed by Bob Rafelson, Five Easy Pieces is one of the earliest films from a decade that would prove to be one of the greatest for American film. It was a decade when the critics and the public were often in agreement on a film’s quality, hence the popular and critical success of such titles as The French Connection, The Godfather, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Five Easy Pieces has some magnificent cinematography, a terrific Nicholson performance, and a lot of characters who are, as his character says, “full of shit.” It holds up, but it’s a movie whose parts, or pieces, are now greater than the whole.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© 2012 Brian W. Fairbanks



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