Taxi Driver (1976)

Taxi Driver is my favorite film. It wasn't always. I remember I'd rented an old VHS copy of the film and watched it with my then-girlfriend. It was pretty good, but it didn't exactly wow me. What it did do, though, was stick with me. I found myself thinking more and more about the film and its impact. And, of course, Travis Bickle.

I'm pretty sure the reason that Taxi Driver perplexed me at first was just because it's so ambiguous. I didn't understand much of it, and some of it still puzzles me. I never really understood why Travis goes from laughing with Palantine to wanting to assassinate him. Considering this is one of the film's main plot points, it can have a frustrating effect on any viewer. But, this ambiguity is one of its strengths, ultimately. Most films spell everything out for you, in bold letters, it's refreshing to see such a film, one that engages the viewer and forces them to try and put things together for themselves. One point that was completely lost on me my first couple viewings was Travis' history. We know, from the opening, that he was in the Marines, and honorably discharged from, what we gather, was the midst of the Vietnam War. There's one very brief shot where we see Travis doing push-ups from above, and we see an odd-looking scar on his back. It's something that's very easy to miss, yet goes a very long way towards explaining who Travis is.

Taxi Driver is full of these little details. Scorsese, Schrader and everybody else involved have injected this film with so much life and energy, so many ideas, such richness, that it's easy admire. It's a film that I can imagine myself watching many more times, picking up small details, examining Travis and the life he lives and ultimately identifying with him.

Identification is probably what Taxi Driver holds for me, that makes it so much better than other films. Travis is a creation, but as a character, as a person, I see so much of myself in him, and so much of him in myself. Ultimately, Taxi Driver is about loneliness. It's about a man who cannot connect with any of his fellow human beings. He tries his best, he approaches people, makes conversation, friendly gestures, but he simply cannot form any kind of a bond with anybody. It occurred to me, watching the film again tonight, that this may not be any fault of his. Every other time I've seen it, the film has given me the impression that Travis is completely alone, and that there is something wrong with him, something that inhibits his ability to connect with people. But, tonight, the film gave me a different impression. Travis tries his best, as we all do, to no avail. But, what if it makes no difference? Maybe this world is so cold that it's impossible to really communicate with anybody else, regardless if you're Travis Bickle or not. You'd think that this would have an adverse effect, but if anything, it makes me empathize with Travis even more, because I've experienced the coldness of the world myself. Maybe me and Travis aren't the problem, maybe the problem is with this world that Scorsese and Schrader have so vividly re-created.

If you haven't guessed, I think Travis Bickle is, not only a kindred spirit, but a fascinating character. Like I said, you're never given too much insight into what really makes him tick, and that's what makes the film so amazing. You have to think for yourself and ask yourself, "Why is he doing this?" Of course, it's never easy. Just like Betsy says, when she quotes the song, he's a walking contradiction. The things that he has the most vehement hatred for, sex and violence, are also the things which most intrigue and excite him. He's frustrated and conflicted, and DeNiro plays it perfectly, giving Travis an incredible look of inner turmoil. There's a beautiful moment, early in the film, when Travis talks to his fellow cabbies in a diner. One of them asks Travis, "How's it hangin'?" The look on his face, in response, is so strange. The easy explanation would be that he's simply lost in thought. But, so me, it seems as if human contact, actual conversation, is completely foreign and alien to him, that he's not quite sure of what to do next.

Bernard Hermann's score, of course, is masterful. Whenever I hear it or think about it, it conjures up the essence of loneliness. Though, it's a strange piece of scoring, since it's light and jazzy. But, that's one of the things that can happen when you marry a piece of music and film together, they effect each other in very strange ways. What I noticed about the music is how well it adapts itself to the situation, yet never changing much. When it wants to be, it's very foreboding and tense. Later, it's dreamy, almost romantic. Other times, it's simply horrific in nature. Hermann was one of the greats, and Taxi Driver is a beautiful way to end his illustrious career.

The ending has always thrown viewers for a loop. The first time I saw it, I accepted it merely at face value, thinking it was a pretty cheesy way to end the story. It wasn't until my second or third viewing that I really began to comprehend it. The most widely accepted theory is, of course, that the epilogue of the film is merely a dream or fantasy Travis has as he is dying. I think this is pretty much accurate, and I know it's the way that I accept it. One thing I love about the ending, that supports the theory, is how surreal and dream-like the shootout is. It's played without music, and the dingy hallways give the voices and sound effects a deep echo. It makes it all feel like a dream or hallucination. And one of the single best moments of the film comes right before the credits roll. In this dream that Travis has concocted for himself, where he plays the hero, finally, he doesn't charge Betsy for the ride and drives away. In another nearly imperceptible moment, he frantically glances into his rear-view mirror, as if the horrors in his mind have caught up with him, yet again. A fitting end for such a wonderfully paranoid American masterpiece.