4. Bonnie and Clyde (Penn, 1967)
Strike up the banjo, hop into that 1932 Ford V8, and join me on a volatile journey through my 4th favorite movie of the ‘60s – but watch out for the potholes. Along the way, we’ll stop to discuss the history of the Production Code, the arbitrariness of the Supreme Court, the majesty of Dust Bowl porn, the naivete of hippies, "Wait, this is Gene Wilder’s film debut?," and my love/hate relationship with the titular couple. Maybe crime doesn’t pay, but at the very least, can it fatally wound 30 years of Hollywood censorship?
We all need someone we can lean on, and if you want to … you can lean on my 4th favorite album of the ‘60s. Do the Beatles sometimes feel a little too “perfect”? Time to savor the perfect mess that is Let It Bleed. And could rock critics please drop this whole “death of the ‘60s” thing? I don’t think any album with this much Keith Richards on it can ever represent the death of anything, because Keith Richards cannot die. They say you can’t always get what you want, but with this essay, I’m afraid you may have gotten what you wanted AND needed.
The only trouble right here in River City? The number of people who think it’s weird I’m placing this so high on my “favorite movies of the ‘60s” list. Maybe trombones, librarians, barbershop quartets, and Wells Fargo wagons are just too hardcore for film studies professors to handle. Well here’s one professor who’s not afraid to tangle with the common folk of small town Iowa – although perhaps he should be. Read on as I pick a little and talk a lot about the strange tale of a conflicted soul who underestimates the power of his own B.S. Leave it to a Broadway musical to observe that there’s nothing more American than a con man.
From Soho down to Brighton, I must have heard it all: “Flawed.” “Pretentious.” “Overhyped.” “Quadrophenia was better.” “The Who Sell Out was better.” “It was better live.” At long last, I clear away the nonsense. Listening to my 3rd favorite album of the ‘60s, I not only get the heat, climb the mountain, and see the glory, but employ every colorful metaphor I have in me to describe Keith Moon’s drumming. See me, feel me, touch me … read me?
