Post by Eddie Love on Oct 10, 2010 10:02:50 GMT -5
The 1970s are seen now as a golden age of serious film-making, where daring, cross-talking naturalism informed even mainstream movies. The period’s cynicism and disillusionment found expression in thrillers like THREE DAYS OF THE CONDOR, THE PARRALAX VIEW or THE CONVERSATION as well as savvy political satires like THE CANDIDATE that captured the era’s zeitgeist. These days, people talk of this period in awed, reverent tones. But not everything made at this time was rarified and sophisticated – there was also plenty of redneck, drive-in fare for the still flourishing regional markets.
But what if there was a film that tied the whole era together? A realistic, Altman-esque, comedic take on the thriller with a dash of politics, that’s also a down-home, good old boy hoot? There is, and it’s called WHITE LIGHTNING.
The films stars juuuuuuust pre-superstar Burt Reynolds as Gator McKlusky a convicted moonshiner who’s sprung from the work-farm when he agrees to aid the authorities in going after the corrupt sheriff of his hometown who, Gator’s learned, was responsible for his younger brother’s death – a pretty disturbing crime shown in the opening credits. Gator goes undercover in the sheriff’s operation aiding a good-old boy moonshiner (Bo Hopkins) and his girlfriend (Jennifer Billingsly) who Gator takes an interest in.
The look of the film is very naturalistic with authentic location shooting and lots of non-professional seeming members of the cast. It’s gritty but lively, and steeped in its Southern milieu. And Burt has a great time, though I wouldn’t call this a star turn – he’s definitely in character and going for a realistic, not necessarily heroic (or frankly, super-smart) take on the role. Similarly, his buddy’s girlfriend who he romances is not at all a conventional female lead, in fact, she’s kind of unattractive, but fits the flavor of the piece perfectly.
The film and Reynolds have two great moments. In one, the Feds who are handling Gator show up and disrupt and intimidate the locals who Gator is staying with. Finally, Gator explodes, something like “Can’t you just leave these people alone!” It’s not a tough-guy exclamation, where he verbally gets the better of the guys harassing him; rather it’s an outburst of impotent frustration, perfectly expressing Gator’s position of powerlessness and that of the lower class people around him.
The other great scene involves Gator and his redneck, moonshiner buddy stopping at a diner where he overhears a group of young, local, college students having a bull session talking about gun control. Gator watches them for a while and walks over to ask them where they go to school. It’s a very low-key moment, but perfectly played by Reynolds as we realize that he’s thinking about his dead brother.
In this and other scenes, Gator is on his own – he has no sidekicks to relate to. We see him as he struggles with his decisions about betraying the locals with whom he has more in common than his law enforcement allies. If this film were made today, I suspect he would have whole scenes where he explicitly declares his motivations and actions. Here, the audience has to pay attention to his subtle changes in attitude.
But the scene with the college students points up the film’s larger political point as well. Gator comes to the realization that his idealistic brother – the type of person his buddy Hopkins looks down on as a commie agitator – is a greater threat to the corrupt powers that be than Gator and his outlaw, moonshiner brethren. Not dissimilar to the dynamic you see today where groups with similar interests are in resentful opposition to each other. (On another social front, the film kind of skirts around the issue of race, but we do see here – and it’s explicitly expressed in the sequel – that Gator is down with black folks.)
Ned Beatty plays the corrupt sheriff, and it’s one of his most impressive performances. There isn’t a trace of condescension or caricature in it. Other solid 70s mainstays like Diane Ladd and R.G. Armstrong fill out the cast, and I don’t think there’s one false note. It’s directed by Joseph Sargent, but viewers today might easily mistake scenes for Altman or Michael Ritchie. Seen today, WHITE LIGHTNING may be more thoughtful and leisurely paced than people who think The Dukes of Hazard epitomized this genre would suspect. Frankly, there's not even all that much car-chasing action. But for fans of classic 70s cinema, it’s a winner.
Three years later, a now-mustachioed Reynolds would return in GATOR. The sequel tells essentially the same story. This time Gator is helping a more sympathetic Federal agent (Jack Weston) to go after the corrupt machine in one county at the behest of the Governor of the state – (over)played in a one-scene-only cameo by talk show host Mike Douglas. Gator goes undercover to work alongside a down-home enforcer named ‘Bama played by Jerry Reed, whose portfolio extends from extortion and gambling to running a brothel of doped-up underage girls.
In this picture Reynolds plays Gator as a more conventionally heroic character. It’s much more in line with what would become his stock and trade during his heyday. He’s the lovable, almost goofy wiseass with the signature high-pitched, unaffected laugh, but also with a smooth line of patter for the ladies. In WHITE LIGHNING, Reynolds played the character of Gator – in GATOR he’s playing the character of Burt Reynolds.
This film marked Reynolds debut as a director and he does a credible job, even if the film is over-long. Also, the pacing of a drawn-out boat chase at the start is a little static and uninvolving. However, like the earlier film, there’s a lot of atmosphere-soaked, location shooting.
Like most of Reynolds’ output as a director he showcases his love of veteran performers, and here there are broad, if misapplied and irritating, comic turns by both Weston and Alice Ghostley. They’re clearly deft performers, but we get a lot more of them than we need. There’s also a painfully protracted scene of Burt rambling on after the badguys have slipped him a mickey.
If Gator’s romantic foil in the first film was a little on the trashy side, here he upgrades to Lauren Hutton as a glamorous TV reporter. Gator’s banter and smooth courtship of her, culminating in a “sensitive” final scene, put to rest any doubt that the character from the earlier film has been cleaned up to the point of unrecognizability.
The most memorable performance in the film is Jerry Reed as the immoral ‘Bama. It’s an astonishingly effective performance. He conveys the character’s venality without commenting on it at all, he’s just chilling and charismatic. It’s certainly as good as a performance that would get someone nominated for an Oscar. He’s the most forceful element in the film. The most striking scene is when Gator is at his whorehouse and offered a drugged girl he soon realizes is underage. This unsparing scene is Reynolds boldest touch. But it’s later followed by a scene of Gator breaking into city hall with Hutton and Ghostley – the later of whom insists they bring her cats along. Whatever. Clearly Burt doesn’t want to dwell on the dark moods he initially evokes. (Indeed, the final confrontation with Reed’s ‘Bama, is pretty abrupt.) However, to be fair the scripts sacrifices some lambs and does so in a pretty downbeat manner.
The Gator pictures may indicate where things were headed in American film, as the unique, unstudied look and feel of the first picture is shunted aside for something conventional and commercial in the follow-up. But it’s fascinating to remember when there was essentially a regional element to filmmaking, and these two pictures both harken back to that time, one more effectively than the other.
But what if there was a film that tied the whole era together? A realistic, Altman-esque, comedic take on the thriller with a dash of politics, that’s also a down-home, good old boy hoot? There is, and it’s called WHITE LIGHTNING.
The films stars juuuuuuust pre-superstar Burt Reynolds as Gator McKlusky a convicted moonshiner who’s sprung from the work-farm when he agrees to aid the authorities in going after the corrupt sheriff of his hometown who, Gator’s learned, was responsible for his younger brother’s death – a pretty disturbing crime shown in the opening credits. Gator goes undercover in the sheriff’s operation aiding a good-old boy moonshiner (Bo Hopkins) and his girlfriend (Jennifer Billingsly) who Gator takes an interest in.
The look of the film is very naturalistic with authentic location shooting and lots of non-professional seeming members of the cast. It’s gritty but lively, and steeped in its Southern milieu. And Burt has a great time, though I wouldn’t call this a star turn – he’s definitely in character and going for a realistic, not necessarily heroic (or frankly, super-smart) take on the role. Similarly, his buddy’s girlfriend who he romances is not at all a conventional female lead, in fact, she’s kind of unattractive, but fits the flavor of the piece perfectly.
The film and Reynolds have two great moments. In one, the Feds who are handling Gator show up and disrupt and intimidate the locals who Gator is staying with. Finally, Gator explodes, something like “Can’t you just leave these people alone!” It’s not a tough-guy exclamation, where he verbally gets the better of the guys harassing him; rather it’s an outburst of impotent frustration, perfectly expressing Gator’s position of powerlessness and that of the lower class people around him.
The other great scene involves Gator and his redneck, moonshiner buddy stopping at a diner where he overhears a group of young, local, college students having a bull session talking about gun control. Gator watches them for a while and walks over to ask them where they go to school. It’s a very low-key moment, but perfectly played by Reynolds as we realize that he’s thinking about his dead brother.
In this and other scenes, Gator is on his own – he has no sidekicks to relate to. We see him as he struggles with his decisions about betraying the locals with whom he has more in common than his law enforcement allies. If this film were made today, I suspect he would have whole scenes where he explicitly declares his motivations and actions. Here, the audience has to pay attention to his subtle changes in attitude.
But the scene with the college students points up the film’s larger political point as well. Gator comes to the realization that his idealistic brother – the type of person his buddy Hopkins looks down on as a commie agitator – is a greater threat to the corrupt powers that be than Gator and his outlaw, moonshiner brethren. Not dissimilar to the dynamic you see today where groups with similar interests are in resentful opposition to each other. (On another social front, the film kind of skirts around the issue of race, but we do see here – and it’s explicitly expressed in the sequel – that Gator is down with black folks.)
Ned Beatty plays the corrupt sheriff, and it’s one of his most impressive performances. There isn’t a trace of condescension or caricature in it. Other solid 70s mainstays like Diane Ladd and R.G. Armstrong fill out the cast, and I don’t think there’s one false note. It’s directed by Joseph Sargent, but viewers today might easily mistake scenes for Altman or Michael Ritchie. Seen today, WHITE LIGHTNING may be more thoughtful and leisurely paced than people who think The Dukes of Hazard epitomized this genre would suspect. Frankly, there's not even all that much car-chasing action. But for fans of classic 70s cinema, it’s a winner.
Three years later, a now-mustachioed Reynolds would return in GATOR. The sequel tells essentially the same story. This time Gator is helping a more sympathetic Federal agent (Jack Weston) to go after the corrupt machine in one county at the behest of the Governor of the state – (over)played in a one-scene-only cameo by talk show host Mike Douglas. Gator goes undercover to work alongside a down-home enforcer named ‘Bama played by Jerry Reed, whose portfolio extends from extortion and gambling to running a brothel of doped-up underage girls.
In this picture Reynolds plays Gator as a more conventionally heroic character. It’s much more in line with what would become his stock and trade during his heyday. He’s the lovable, almost goofy wiseass with the signature high-pitched, unaffected laugh, but also with a smooth line of patter for the ladies. In WHITE LIGHNING, Reynolds played the character of Gator – in GATOR he’s playing the character of Burt Reynolds.
This film marked Reynolds debut as a director and he does a credible job, even if the film is over-long. Also, the pacing of a drawn-out boat chase at the start is a little static and uninvolving. However, like the earlier film, there’s a lot of atmosphere-soaked, location shooting.
Like most of Reynolds’ output as a director he showcases his love of veteran performers, and here there are broad, if misapplied and irritating, comic turns by both Weston and Alice Ghostley. They’re clearly deft performers, but we get a lot more of them than we need. There’s also a painfully protracted scene of Burt rambling on after the badguys have slipped him a mickey.
If Gator’s romantic foil in the first film was a little on the trashy side, here he upgrades to Lauren Hutton as a glamorous TV reporter. Gator’s banter and smooth courtship of her, culminating in a “sensitive” final scene, put to rest any doubt that the character from the earlier film has been cleaned up to the point of unrecognizability.
The most memorable performance in the film is Jerry Reed as the immoral ‘Bama. It’s an astonishingly effective performance. He conveys the character’s venality without commenting on it at all, he’s just chilling and charismatic. It’s certainly as good as a performance that would get someone nominated for an Oscar. He’s the most forceful element in the film. The most striking scene is when Gator is at his whorehouse and offered a drugged girl he soon realizes is underage. This unsparing scene is Reynolds boldest touch. But it’s later followed by a scene of Gator breaking into city hall with Hutton and Ghostley – the later of whom insists they bring her cats along. Whatever. Clearly Burt doesn’t want to dwell on the dark moods he initially evokes. (Indeed, the final confrontation with Reed’s ‘Bama, is pretty abrupt.) However, to be fair the scripts sacrifices some lambs and does so in a pretty downbeat manner.
The Gator pictures may indicate where things were headed in American film, as the unique, unstudied look and feel of the first picture is shunted aside for something conventional and commercial in the follow-up. But it’s fascinating to remember when there was essentially a regional element to filmmaking, and these two pictures both harken back to that time, one more effectively than the other.