Welcome to back Schradervision, in which I attempt to understand writer/director Paul Schrader by exploring his filmography from start to finish. In this entry, we’ll take a look at his second produced screenplay and one of the most iconic films of the 1970s: TAXI DRIVER.
Where do you even begin with Taxi Driver? What can I say that hasn’t already been said, obsessed over, said again, and analyzed into oblivion? It’s the film that launched Martin Scorsese, Paul Schrader and Robert De Niro to new heights. It’s been thinkpiece’d to death. It’s left a mark on countless films that have come out since, most recently directly influencing Todd Philips’ 2019 film in which Joaquin Phoenix won an Oscar for playing the goddamn Joker1. And yet, for all it’s simmering rage, the film’s reputation seems to always be conflated with that of it’s main character.
This is a film borne out of Schrader reading up on the attempted assassination of George Wallace; a film that, in turn, inspired an assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan. That kind of circular causality feels right at home in the world of Travis Bickle, where sleepless nights feed into listless days before the whole thing starts over again. It’s a cycle that finds Bickle traversing the streets of New York, observing all the sex workers, drug dealers and other assorted characters that he deems unworthy, and then by day convincing himself this is a problem he can solve.
The script was produced at a time when Paul Schrader was seemingly at the end of his rope. He wrote the script over the course of two weeks while squatting in an ex-girlfriend’s apartment. Much of his routine and mental state at the time found its way into the finished product, including his habit of visiting porno theaters and sex shops. For Schrader, it was a function of those being the only places open at night; for Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) it became a part of his neurosis. Despite his disgust with the scene, he simply couldn’t keep himself away.
As Schrader tells it, the film’s central metaphor—a lonely cabbie driving others around town for money—hit him while he lived in this isolated fugue state. Sleeping during the day, driving around drinking at night, visiting porn theaters, coming home and doing it all again eventually put him in the hospital. Developing an ulcer that forced Schrader to seek medical attention was the slap in the face he needed, and the script materialized quickly. It’s also worth pointing out that all of this took place before Paul Schrader collaborated with his brother Leonard on what would eventually become The Yakuza.
Bickle, a 26 year-old Vietnam veteran, isn’t alone out there. Schrader and director Scorsese focus on this one particular case, but also give us a glimpse at dozens of other taxi drivers along the periphery. Each one could potentially be playing out their own deranged fantasy. His isolation, his desperate attempts at connecting with other people, his behavior upon failing to connect; all of these paint him as a very disturbed individual. Even among his fellow cabbies, Bickle is uniquely alone.
And yet, Taxi Driver seems to want us to sympathize with this man. After all, it’s not Travis’ fault he’s in this situation. Vietnam clearly inflicted some psychological damage on him, as it did many veterans who came home broken to an equally a broken society. Travis’ inability to connect with other people makes him pitiful; it’s only natural for us to want to see him dig himself out of that hole. His rejection by political campaigner Betsy (Cybill Shepard), along with an awkward meeting with presidential candidate Charles Palantine (Leonard Harris), signals to us that Travis might be too far gone for any kind of salvation. But the movie persists. Travis’ obsessions deepen, his exercise regimen gets more strenuous, he begins arming himself for some unknown confrontation. Who does he think he’s going to strike out against? Does he even know? Does it even matter? The film’s middle act is perhaps its most disturbing. As we become acquainted with Travis and his mental state, we see that he’s preparing himself for some kind of action, but the target could be anyone. He could be preparing to lash out at the women who reject him, the political candidate who marginalize him, the scum he sees out on the streets… Only late in the film does it become clear what Travis plans to do. But even then, we get the sense that Travis really doesn’t have a plan until one reveals itself to him. He’s a loaded gun looking for a target.
Scorsese, naturally, brings a very Catholic sensibility to the story. At one point we see Travis training in his apartment, and seemingly out of nowhere, he’s shown holding his fist over the flame from his gas stovetop. And it’s not a quick blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shot. The film lingers on this, making you feel the heat and the tension as Travis stands there subjecting his body to this punishment. He’s purifying his body, purging himself of…whatever it is he thinks he’s full of. Impure thoughts? Weakness? Gluttony? There are better ways to wean yourself off of Ring Dings and Doritos, dude.
Self-flagellation isn’t purely a Catholic thing, of course. Paul Schrader himself notes that he saw this as “the story of a Protestant kid from the snow country who wandered into a cathedral in the middle of New York City.” Schrader, raised Protestant and groomed from a young age to enter the priesthood, knows that story well. His rebellion against a family and a faith that forbade movies as “worldly amusements” was what led him to UCLA, the American Film Institute, and everything that followed.
Looking back, Schrader is proud of the work, but considers it a piece of “juvenilia”. In this interview with Film Comment, he describes it as the work of a young man attempting to understand himself and his place in the world. You can certainly see that in the finished product. For as much as Travis Bickle is struggling to reintegrate into society post-Vietnam, we also find him just struggling as a young man trying to figure out where he fits into society. As a cabbie, Travis is mobile, he’s able to meet and interact with his fellow New Yorkers. But that could describe any cab driver. Travis still has to make the effort to engage, which is the only way he’ll ever learn which habits he needs to curb and which ones deserve encouragement. His frustration with his initial rejections should signal to anyone watching that it’s a slippery slope from functional adult to incel radical.
Taxi Driver would be nominated for four Academy Awards, including Best Picture alongside All the President’s Men, Bound for Glory, Network and Rocky. The latter wound up winning that year, which many have pointed to as a sign that the Academy, and America at large, were looking for any reason to escape from the doldrums, corruption and stagnation of the mid-1970s. It’s hard not to compare that to 2020, when many of that year’s Best Picture nominees had an eye on history (1917), class warfare (Parasite) and domestic strife (Marriage Story).
Bringing things full circle, Joker landed more nominations than any other film in 2020. With Scorsese onboard as a producer, that film took the Travis Bickle template—that of the isolated, mentally unstable loner—and grafted it onto an origin story for one of the most iconic comic book villains. The comparison is an apt one; both Travis Bickle and Arthur Fleck have skewed visions of the world, and take it upon themselves to right their perceived wrongs. But whereas Taxi Driver looks at Bickle as a man to be pitied, and then later feared, Joker asks us to sympathize with Fleck to the bitter end, even as he pulls the trigger. I can’t think of a more bleak sign of the times than that.
- You wanna know how long ago I started writing this piece? 2019. Good lord. ↩︎
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