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Flicks

—Jeremy LittleJohn

In 1968, after a five year lay-off Sam Peckinpah put together a film known as 'The Wild Bunch'. One of the bloodiest, and one of the best, westerns ever made, it revelled in both critical and popular acclaim. Since then, Peckinpah has gone on to make five other movies: 'The Ballad of Cable Hogue', 'Straw Dogs', 'Junior Bonner', 'The Getaway' and, now, 'Pat Garret and Billy the Kid'. The first four of these were muddled affairs and bore little resemblance to their magnificent predeccessor. But the last of them, now showing at the Cinerama, echoes 'The Wild Bunch' with some success, even if it ultimately fails to get off the ground as a film in its own right. There is the attempt to re-interpret an established American myth, there are themes of self vindication, territorial compulsion, allegiance and betrayal, and its setting is Mexico and New Mexico. But these are only concordances, and they don't enjoy the explosive force and epic granduer with which their counterparts were treated in 'The Wild Bunch'.

Many films have been made about William Bonney, from the inane 'Dracula Meets Billy The Kid' to the quietly impressive 'Dirty Little Billy'. This one begins where another. 'Left Handed Gun' (Arthur Penn directing Paul Newman as the Kid) left off.

In the latter Billy goes down with three cohorts in a small hut, but in this version the anti-hero makes his escape and goes on to perforate many more enemies before eventually succumbing to the implacable Garret. One might call this artistic licence, or one might call it Peckinpah's pandering to his own preference for manhunt material. Either way, the tampering with fact realises bugger-all in the way of benefits.

The problem is not one of unwieldly material, however. It is simply a matter of treatment. The script wanders away from the main action with annoying frequency and, on its return to matters germaine, proceeds at a pace that can be called pedestrian at best. The employment of no less than five film editors compounds the confusion. And then, the distributors having shortened the film for release in New Zealand. Our local censor adds (or rather, subtracts) his own lacerations and, to recall John Donne... 'all coherence gone'. Like Billy himself, the film has enemies within and without its own camp, and they cannot overcome.

Another problem that besets the production is the dilatory effect of the performances. James Coburn has neither power nor presence and conviviality is not enough to create a Pat Garret that matches the myth. And then we have Messrs Kristofferson and Dylan. Kristofferson is a singer of some note, but his acting languishes into monotony: and even if he had a good time playing cowpoke, the pleasure doesn't travel. Being neither sufficiently good looking to attract attention, nor sufficiently ugly to command it, the onus is upon him to burn up the screen as well as houses and horsethieves. But he doesn't. Neither does Bob, although his part asks for relatively little. In fact, the elusive Bobby the Kid seems to have written his own lines (after the film was shot, judging by his voice-lip synchronisation) and they seem tailor-made to keep the Dylan enigma as impenetrable as ever. However his score is excellent, and it is reassuring to know that he is still a musician. Not so re-assuring, however is the thought of his continuing to frequent movie locations. The same can be said of Rita Coolidge who makes nothing of what is a dangerously vacuous part anyway. And she looks, like her minstrel mates, out of place among the Peckinpah pros. Amateurism is a nice idea, hut it is enjoyed most when movie going is also an amateur affair and a buck is not solicited at the box office.

In fact, it's the pros who have the best of the film, and under Peckinpah, this is hardly surprising. One of the film's very memorable scenes centres around an extraordinary demise played to the hill by Slim Pickins and Jack Elam's glass eye gets a good look at a fine supporting, performance. L.Q. Smith does rather well too. But these occasional spurts never threaten to save the dismal proceedings into which they are laced.

Something which is of a high standard throughout, and thank God it is, is John Coquillon's photography. His style is very similar to that of Peckinpah's usual photographer: (Lucien Ballard), and at least, he manages to create a few atmospherics that are both distinguished and memorable. Were the other elements of the film as positive as this, then it would have been.....well, better. As it is, we shall have to wait for the full expression of Sam Peckinpah's genius, and hope that it is not a long, long lime coming.

When this goes to press, 'Alvin Purple' will be screening at the Plaza. Another Aussie film, and here's hoping that it will be funny.