If you're a believer in the idea that something like a city can be a major character in a work of fiction like Taxi Driver, then you have evidence in this film, one of cinema's highest-regarded works and one that celebrates its fiftieth anniversary this year. It's a permanent part of Americana for obvious reasons (namely that immortal line—"You talkin' to me?"), but it works because of something more fundamental: it's a collection of masters of their craft. Composer Bernard Herrmann's iconic score (often reminiscent of his earlier work in Citizen Kane), makeup artist Dick Smith's mohawk, writer Paul Schrader's metaphor of a taxi cab as loneliness, director Martin Scorsese's vision among this "bombed out" West Side, and the performances of his actors are all effective reminders that these are artists at their finest, and the results of their collaboration can be stupendous.
Younger viewers may think the film's depiction of New York City is hyperbole; they may not recognize the NYC of old, but they will surely recognize the violence, particularly from a white man with untreated mental health issues and a chip on his shoulder. In this film, Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) is a Vietnam War veteran struggling with insomnia and willing to drive anytime, anywhere. In diary entries, he describes himself as "God's lonely man" who has been followed by loneliness his whole life, and grievously complains of the difficult parts of his job (like cleaning semen off the seats) or his belief that a rain needs to wash all the "scum" off the streets. "All the animals come out at night," he mutters. His bitterness has frequent targets—he's anti-queer, anti-sex worker, and racist—and they all need to be washed away.
Travis is one of two deeply disturbed and disturbing protagonists suffering from delusions of grandeur and a bit of gullibility in the first half of Scorsese's career, with the other Rupert Pupkin in The King of Comedy (who is also played by De Niro). Both are confident in the worst ways. It's not as if Travis is not trying—there are several uncomfortable scenes of him trying and failing to flirt with women and ending up being creepy and toxic. With Betsy, a campaign worker played by Cybill Shepherd for a presidential hopeful, Travis certainly shoots his shot, and she seems to entertain the idea of a date with him, even if he comes on quite strong. "I don't believe I've ever met anyone quite like you," she calmly explains to him at a diner on their first date as he rambles on and on. An awkward date that is nevertheless a date is undoubtedly a win for a man like Travis, and yet it becomes increasingly difficult to sympathize with him. Their relationship is doomed once Travis makes the fatal mistake of taking Betsy to a pornographic film in what is likely their second date. Travis's desperate attempts to repair what limited relationship he had with Betsy are so painful and awkward that Scorsese felt he had no choice but to pan the camera to the right so the audience wouldn't fully experience the pain of having to watch such a scene.
There is not one bad performance in this film, and it's not simply the big heavy hitters (De Niro, Shepherd, et al), but the smaller ones, like Peter Boyle as Wizard, the seasoned expert who may or may not be able to give a troubled soul like Travis some helpful advice; Leonard Harris as Senator Charles Palatine (Star Wars buffs should be able to note the connection); and Albert Brooks in his debut film role as Tom, the campaign aide who (despite initial impressions) does have a spine. Other short yet memorable performances are provided by actors like Joe Spinell, whom you may recognize from films like Rocky, The Godfather, and The Godfather Part II. If you had to pinpoint an actor who is trying too hard, it ironically is Scorsese, who has two cameo appearances. The one that is not a blink-and-you'll-miss-it is when he plays a deranged, potentially violent passenger who claims he will kill his wife. It's an interesting yet disturbing scene, but basically the only one that features distracting acting.
After being dumped and continuing to struggle with insomnia and being angry at the city, Travis descends into madness. Moving on from Betsy, he meets a child prostitute named Iris, played by twelve-year-old Jodie Foster. Travis's new mission is to save Iris from this hellish life. To save a child from prostitution is righteous—to do so in the manner Travis does it is not. That climactic scene, however, is so iconic yet controversial. The controversy over the blood color, in fact, in which the ratings board was to deny the film a release based on how graphic the scene was, supposedly provoked Scorsese to threaten to violently destroy the film, according to the new documentary about his life this year.
Taxi Driver was immediately a success and a lightning rod. It made nearly thirty times its budget at the box office, won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival, and was nominated for four Academy Awards—Director, Actor, Supporting Actress (Foster), and Original Score. In a year of other pessimistic films like All the President's Men and Network, they all lost to a more upbeat film in line with the hopeful optimism of the nation's bicentennial, Rocky. The film helped cement Scorsese's status as an important American filmmaker, yet it also was a film that resulted in death threats and inspiration for John Hinckley, the deranged man who tried to assassinate President Ronald Reagan apparently in an attempt to impress Foster.
Beyond the controversy, Taxi Driver is a remarkable movie quite unlike just about any before or since. A lot of what makes it work is what has already been mentioned—its direction by Scorsese, its story and script by Schrader, its mesmerizing score by Bernard Herrmann, and its performances (namely De Niro; Foster; Shepherd; Brooks; and Harvey Keitel as Sport, the pimp). Yet it could be argued that the fundamental aspect of this film that is so engrossing is its central character, Travis Bickle. One of those odd American Film Institute televised lists about twenty years ago was about heroes and villains. It ranked Travis the thirtieth greatest villain, dumbing the character down to an uncomplicated world which wouldn't recognize someone like Travis Bickle. The villainy is allowing a city and its inhabitants in the richest country in the world succumb to the mental health anguishes, gun violence, and child prostitution, making what should have been a shining city on a hill turn hellish. What more could you expect if those in power shrug off those troubles and suggest they drop dead?
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