Keaton Marcus

Violence has always been a sensitive subject in the world of cinema. Whenever a film with a considerable amount releases, the media is always in a flurry to nitpick at every little detail. “It’s glorified brutality!” “Think about how this will influence your kids in the future!” “It’s only for shock value!” We’ve seen these types of criticisms thrown at the artform for as long as anyone can remember, and they’ve only intensified further in the modern day environment. When considering a film with constant depictions of violence, it’s essential to contemplate the director’s core intentions. Are they really making this solely for shock factor, or is there a lesson to be learned? Is there any sort of purpose behind all the blood or explosions or whatnot? Watching violent cinema from this specific lens can aid one in fully grasping what the artist truly wanted to achieve, and that is what’s sorely lacking in mainstream film criticism today. People are so eager to get headlines about how immature and dangerous these movies are, but the ironic thing is, their writing is as pointless as the art they claim is.

Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde was one of earlier examples of a movie that was absolutely bombarded with ridiculous comments about its seemingly glorified criminal carnage. Released in 1967 and taking major inspiration from the French New Wave, it’s not only a stylistic triumph but one of the most iconic movies to depict criminals as protagonists. The portrayal of the two star crossed killers is very clear cut. Penn is in no way making a contention that the two’s actions are to be emulated by the audiences watching, but they’re very evidently antiheroes. He gives this Robin Hood-esque twist to the couple, having them steal from the banks during a national depression and only show sympathy to the less fortunate. This doesn’t come with a life lesson, but the film makes little attempt to paint Bonnie and Clyde as terrible people. Moreover, it was incredibly compelling to root for the two to survive despite already knowing the inevitable outcome. The police were the antagonists in my head, and considering the discussion we had in class, others seemed to agree.

More specifically, what’s going on with the violence in this movie? It’s relatively brutal, and not just for the time. It doesn’t necessarily reach the level of blood spilled in so many gratuitous slasher movies (especially nowadays), but from the visceral shootouts between the Barrow Gang and the police to the undeniably aggressive conclusion, it’s a very intense film. Did it go to the point of truly shocking me? Definitely not. In my opinion, and contrary to what many thought at the time of its release, there’s a sense of taste and purpose in Penn’s depiction of violence. This is a film about the misadventures of an infamous, real-life gang and their encounters with the law. It’s not exactly for the faint of heart.

The ending is definitely an example of Penn’s tastefulness and artistic integrity. Even in the most “shocking” sequence, there is never a sacrifice of the movie’s unique approach to editing and cinematography. The rapid cuts between the faces of Bonnie and Clyde and their invisible enemy in the bushes not only provides this last sense of urgency before their demise, but also a commitment to the craft and the characters. There is most definitely a line of what should and shouldn’t be shown on-screen, and Bonnie & Clyde barely crosses it.

In fact, the only time where this film really felt gratuitous was during one of the first robberies the Barrow Gang committed. Barely escaping from the cops, a man jumps onto their car attempting to make a last ditch effort to stop them. Clyde, in a nervous and chaotic state, pulls out his gun and shoots him directly in the face. Penn makes no attempt to cut away, showing the facial wound in all its bloody glory. It felt violent for the sake of being violent. The scene didn’t bother me in the slightest, but it really brings the question of purpose back to the table. Was it necessary? Could Clyde have done a swerve to throw the man off the car instead of shooting him? Probably. Still, as someone so used to depravity in cinema, it wasn’t an issue.

In terms of other movies we saw as a class this year, Bonnie & Clyde is easily the most grotesque out of the bunch. Sidney Lumet’s The Pawnbroker is the most interesting, however. In the overall running time, there is barely any violence, yet the conclusion, even with the most minimal portrayal of it, happens to be the most disturbing scene I have seen all year. It’s a moment where Rod Steiger’s Nazerman impales his own hand on a metal rod, with blood slowly spilling as the credits roll. Contextually, this is a man who has lost all sense of emotion, and to bring back some manner of feeling, he does this. Lumet shows someone so desperate for any humanity that the character turns to self-harm to reclaim it. In direct contrast, Sergio Leone’s The Good, The Bad and the Ugly shows just the opposite. This is a shoot-em-up western that clearly inspired the likes of Quentin Tarantino, so it was easy to expect a decent amount of violence going in. Even still, it was a surprise for the time. It’s full of this inconsequential, no-holds-barred depiction of gun fights, and as Lumet turns to violence for Nazerman’s reclamation of humanity, Leone shows it as a dehumanization. Every character is reduced to their primal instincts, governed by greed and revenge. The violence is used to represent their animalistic intentions, and it’s definitely a noteworthy contrast between this and The Pawnbroker.

Bosley Crowther, a critic at The New York Times, jumped on the hate bandwagon for Bonnie and Clyde immediately. He dubbed the violence as “sensationalistic” and said the film “treats the hideous depredations of that sleazy, moronic pair as though they were full of fun and frolic.” First of all, the pair, and the gang itself, were known to be a charismatic bunch, living that twisted outlaw dream in larger-than-life fashion until they didn’t. Secondly, Penn smartly cuts the glamorization of their actions and lifestyle in general to an incredible low. It’s quickly established within the halfway point that Bonnie and Clyde are terrified of their own violence, and eventually pay with their lives in the end. Penn’s directorial attitude is far from the perfect, happy-go-lucky tone Crowther claimed the movie carried. It’s dark, depressing and engulfed with this profound sense of regret.

Pauline Kael, a critic (The New Yorker) who was one of the first to advocate for this revolutionary style of American moviemaking, describes my core perspective best in her essay on the film. She argues that the violence in Bonnie and Clyde has substance and a purpose, contrary to Crowther’s perspective. “It is a kind of violence that says something to us; it is something that artists must be free to use… Will we, as some people have suggested, be lured into imitating the violent crimes of Clyde and Bonnie because Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway are ‘glamorous’?…It’s difficult to see how, since the characters they played are horrified by it and ultimately destroyed by it.” The movie isn’t a saccharine, sensationalized portrayal of criminals, but a dilemma for audiences to choose whether to glorify these people. Crowther fell into the trap that Penn set, and that’s what’s so humorous about his ignorant attitude. The actors, fashion and cars are all pretty. The characters aren’t