(Directed by Terrence Malick)
by Kevin Murphy
Beware of film that references the Bible. In fact, any artistic genre that suggests a kinship with Christianity’s forbears should be as ample and instructive a warning as a speeding train’s screaming whistle. This isn’t the Bible’s fault, though, as its individuals, morals and tales are the Western world’s coda. Rather, it’s the film to blame, as too often the Bible’s metaphors and messages are interpreted through a contemporary situation in which a remarkable yet flawed young man and an innocent, devoted girl flounce within the proverbial Garden of Eden and, alas, predictably, reach for that awful, irresistible fruit.
I’m not suggesting Terrence Malick’s 1973 film, “Badlands,” is torn from the Bible’s back pages. But its characters, Kit (Martin Sheen) and Holly (Sissy Spacek) are blessed with a determined ideology that pits their revved-up youth against a country that cannot provide them with what they want. But what they want isn’t clear, and so we barrel with them across the upper Midwest as they struggle for clarity in their lives.
Meantime, blood flows. Kit kills all potential for clarity by firing bullets into anything that distresses him. And when you’re on the lam, the slightest breeze becomes threatening.
All this begins in Texas, early nineteen sixties. Holly’s mother is dead from pneumonia. Holly’s father, (Warren Oates) is distraught and moves them to South Dakota. Soon Kit crawls into the foray. He’s a recently fired garbage man with a thing for redheads. He and Holly fall in together. After weeks of sneaking around, Holly’s father discovers their relationship. Threatened with losing Holly, Kit is forced to take action. When Holly’s father doesn’t capitulate, Kit pulls out a revolver. After the smoke, Kit and Holly are on the run, on the road, intent on preserving their unique love while keeping the authorities at bay.
Kit is a blur of historical characters. Constantly eating fruit, he passes the hours kicking cans and throwing stones. He is pleased when referred to as a James Dean look-alike. His hunched, mischievous ambivalence confirms this, along with his denim, white t-shirt body suit. But he’s also Clyde Barrow and Billy the Kid, a trailblazing huckster with nothing to lose. Holly, for her part, moves from a freckled, baton twirling teenager to a decisive young woman in the span of the film’s ninety-five minutes. Her trajectory from naïve, seduced teenager to intuitive young woman is displayed with suggestive looks and sly innuendoes. She quietly distances herself from Kit, reading magazines and denouncing his ideas, and the power advantage shifts. She no longer wants to be with Kit, and her dependency diminishes. With this rift, Kit’s true motives gain focus. He merely wants someone to pay attention, to admire his looks and attitudes, and when Holly loses interest, Kit grows pathetic, lost, his rebellious spirit broken.
The film progresses with scenes of whimsical, dreamy sequence, scenes that capture the wild, loose beauty of the American frontier. A sunset shows dust and sagebrush, pink hues smearing the horizon. Palpable white clouds erupt over barren, threadbare towns. We see raindrops trickle down the leaves in the forest. We soar over vast stretches of Midwestern’ prairie. We stare up the great trunks of trees to a spot where the sun gleams like diamonds. The film, like its characters, suggests our truest definition is found in an appreciation of freedom and nature, and that all the other strife is strictly survival oriented. It is through this distinctive yet blurred lens that “Badlands” gains its power, and it’s through their distinctive yet blurred personalities that Kit and Holly shape their characters. Through it all they tear up the road. Living, loving and killing like a couple of bipolar nomads.
And there’s the soundtrack: Part quirky, melodic poem of good fortune and serenity, part ominous drumbeat of gathering violence. At one point near the end, as they speed through the inky night for Montana, Kit slaps Holly’s hand from the radio. Nat King Cole is singing. Nat’s voice slows everything down; it provides the embattled couple with one last moment of peace. They step out of the car and dance within the headlights’ yellow glow. It’s a tender and sad scene because it evokes hopefulness, some glint of salvation, but alas, Kit and Holly’s doomed fate is imminent.
Religion has always been an inspiration for art. The struggle for good over evil, the poignancy of sacrifice and faith has burned in the creative mind for centuries. So it’s no wonder we see the familiar, sacred messages continue to penetrate film. But a slight change has occurred. This change is represented in our contemporary understanding of who is right and who is wrong, what is right and what is wrong. If our protagonist is a misunderstood, underprivileged roughneck with a penchant for individualism, shouldn’t he be forgiven a few rash murders, especially when it’s The Man pressuring him to get a job and forget about the girl he loves? And if that girl loves him, is she not entitled to go with him, at his behest, across the Great Plains, where a new life awaits, one not intruded upon by the pressures of society? And isn’t she justified in her commitment, even if it means incriminating herself along the way? The answer from the outside is an obvious no. But if you can get inside that situation, near the crisscrossed heartbeats and rationalizing thoughts, you might say yes, these two are entitled. They are young and they are in love and the world is coming down on them. Go West! Go West! Sounds the trumpet of approval, for now Kit and Holly have attained that delicious status as outlaws.
This status becomes Kit’s ideal. He is obsessed with posterity, with painting himself as a wily and indiscriminate criminal with a deeper insight into the human condition. He feels it’s his duty to rescue Holly from her father’s overbearing protection. He kills only those who don’t play by the rules. He speaks of keeping an open mind, and understanding the flaws of the masses. He makes lists of things ‘borrowed’ and then steals without restraint. In essence, he embodies the conflicted, conscientious criminal. This lends his life meaning, one in which he hopes to find glory at the end of the road.
Ultimately, Kit does find his glory. But it’s not the kind he can relish, as he is briskly taken away for the electric chair. In the final scene, the camera hovers in the clouds. We are left to daydream, like Kit, about all that’s happened. The camera lifts and turns, displaying the topside of the unfurled sky. We may still not be in Heaven, but we’re no longer trapped on that beautiful, haunting place called the Badlands.
Terrance Malick has created a film comparable to other desperado road-cinema. He uses well-wrought themes and idiosyncratic characters to deliver his message, a message told many times before. In film, music, literature and art, the villain is the motor of the plot. He attacks, ruffles, and otherwise disrupts things until the hero overwhelms and triumphs. The peculiar thing here, and this is what distinguishes “Badlands,” is no true hero emerges, and the villains are left up for discussion. So even if Kit munches on enough forbidden fruit to portray himself as a defiant Adam, he has not begun the cycle of sin, merely run the gamut of its course.
