August 17, 1967 [Bonnie and Clyde]

Clyde Barrow's gun works so well that Bonnie Parker bites her lip and widens her eyes just looking at it. They walk into a hail of bullets and two-step their way to Hell without a backward glance--just a quick look at each other, pirates in stolen cars re-imagining the Great Depression as a sea of grass on which they sail, unsure of the winds but happy to be afloat--and angry, revisiting highways like Bob Dylan gone electric, Enemies of the People with a song--no, a poem: Bonnie's--in their hearts.

Bonnie and Clyde is funny and puzzling and brutal and arch, with a visual style as convincing as a barfight broken bottle--and that's about as convincing as it gets. Arthur Penn is more than willing to let his camera bounce like a Tommy gun in his hands, and I've gone back three times to watch those moments of startled recognition: of love and imminent doom--the photo-realist ballet at the end, Clyde's hand limp, held out to Bonnie with more than a little shame--"no lover boy," he had insisted, showing her how to shoot.