The seventies remain in many ways a fascinating decade for me. Some might think of gaudy disco suits, bad mustaches, and reruns of Starsky & Hutch—but for me, there’s just as much to consider about the malaise and decay bought about by fuel crises, stagflation, the aftermath of failed ill-conceived wars, and growing existential panic over the environment. Now, how much of that sounds familiar, eh?
It was also an interesting time for Hollywood—arguably the most interesting period of all for me in that regard. The old studio system was collapsing, and while it would coalesce around the now familiar blockbuster format by the end of the decade thanks to Spielberg and Lucas, the interim saw all manner of other young directors get their start with new producers and veteran creators trying to make their mark. Among these was Martin Sorcese, now a legend in the game himself—and in this time he produced a film in many ways very much emblematic of not only this time, but perhaps later ones to. It may not be as epic as Goodfellas or Irishman, it may not have the glitz of Casino nor the production of Gangs of New York…but even so, it remains perhaps my favorite of his—it’s Taxi Driver.
Perhaps the reason why I pick this one out of Sorcese’s filmography is the simplicity—focusing on one character, Travis Bickle, played by an almost unrecognizably baby-faced young Robert De Niro. Travis, we can infer, is a disturbed Vietnam veteran working a night taxi job in Manhattan, exposed to the rotting underbelly of the Big Apple. This was a time when gentrification and overly expensive apartment prices was an unthinkable problem for New York—crime was rampant, the federal government had essentially given up on the city, and sleaze took root wherever it could at the foot of seemingly proud skyscrapers. From Serpico to Escape from New York, it’s a period of the city cinema didn’t hesitate in latching onto, and it’s that atmosphere that this film captures perfectly from the dreamlike opening credits blurring neon and night together.
Writer Paul Schrader said he was inspired by insomniac nights roaming the city—and as someone who’s done some writing while under sleeplessness himself, I think it shows nicely. Travis seems aptly distant yet obsessed over the social and physical dilapidation around him, with his misanthropic inner monologues becoming iconic in and of themselves. Lurching across the city with little goal, we get the perfect sense of a man trapped in the stupor of the post-Vietnam era, trying to seek out any purpose—as destructive, we find, as it may be, even as he latches onto a campaign worker played by Cybill Shepherd.
De Niro’s performance is also what sells Travis’ growing psychosis, as he starts putting his mind to assassinating politicians and pimps. There’s of course the infamous scene of him trying out guns, which some people took as cool—even though they’re looking at a rather disquieted man essentially posing in a mirror, trying to fantasize. Then again, that probably perfectly sums up the sort of people who’d take Bickle as a role model here.
Either way, it’s that masterful focus on this one character, combined with the slightly detached and dreamlike atmosphere that matches his somewhat shaky grasp on reality, that makes Taxi Driver a favorite of mine. It’s an atmosphere of urban decay that’s influenced films aplenty but other mediums, like comic books—Travis’ narration has been aped by shall we say less talented writers, who usually just have their characters ramble about ‘reeks of fear that prove that real strength doesn’t come from fluffy bunny rabbits’ or some other such nonsense.
And, in more recent films, there’s been others directly aping this one’s style, by seeming coincidence starring Joaquin Phoenix, with the direct spiritual successor in You Were Never Really Here, and more famously, the Joker movie, which went right back to that same period of malaise. It makes sense enough—there’s no shortage of people lost in confusion right now, some roaming the streets in uncertain times, struggling and fumbling for purpose, sometimes expressing that in ways of violence.
In both history and culture, things may not repeat exactly, but they sure do rhyme, don’t they?
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