Terry Malick's re-examination of the Charles Starkweather case is conducted under antiseptic laboratory conditions. A homicidal maniac, who does an uncanny James Dean impression in T-shirt and cowboy boots, and his baton-twirler girlfriend, take flight, cross-country; but they find themselves continually penned into arty, desolate compositions and saddled with inane things to say. "We should crush our hands with this rock so we'll remember this day always." "Wouldn't it hurt?" "That's the point, stupid." "Don't call me stupid." And so on. These blank-eyed fugitives manifest none of the heightened sensitivities of their forerunners in proletarian tragedy: George Raft, Sylvia Sidney, et al. The spooky feeling of this movie is that the people on screen have all had their blood sucked. With Martin Sheen, Sissy Spacek, and Warren Oates. (1973) — Duncan Shepherd
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