The papers always blow these things up...

Rating: 10/10 (2 April 2016)

Bernard Herrmann's score for Taxi Driver has two distinct, recurring elements to it which Rosenbaum call 'heaven' and 'hell'. The latter is that ominous, brooding brass heavy tune that pumps up again and again as the taxi glides through the darkness of New York City like Charon's ferry through the River Styx. It thuds and blares in time with Bickle's heartbeat and pursed-eyed glare as he surveys the filth and scum around him - the city's terrors come alive in the soundtrack, hisses of machinery and auto-mobile, gusts of steam erupting from the ground, water whipping up a blurry haze from inside the taxi's POV. And the former is that romantic jazz influenced saxophone fill that feels like it could be plucked from Woody Allen's Gershwin-inspired love letter to his favourite city, but here it is steeped in irony. In the final sounding of this motif, the camera hovers over the 'happy' ending for Travis - the tiny little newspapers clippings branding his heroism, the narration of Iris' parents' gratitude, lingering on Betsy's admiring glances at the now celebrated figure. These two elements clash again and again like they are fighting for control of the narrative; Travis' own paranoia and disintegration of his mind muddle it further.
He is a Vietnam veteran and feels disillusioned by the state of the city he lives in. Haven't we all once felt the same sort of loathing for elements out of our control - a rubbish heap dumped in the middle of nowhere, homeless slumming in the streets, violence ringing in our ears. But we at least have the capacity to deflect, to avert our gaze and move on. Travis cannot turn away - he soaks and absorbs each incident he sees, and though he claims insomnia and a hatred for all the city's night goings that lead to him cleaning cum and blood off his back seat, he drives and drives and drives, like an addict who cannot stay away, and Scorsese magnifies each transgression in his eyes with a hazy slow-motion effect and uses Chemtone so each nightmarish spot of darkness on the streets leaks into open spaces.
Schrader has written what others have described as a 'walking contradiction' - Bickle's addled mind makes frightening justifications in between his rather sane lapses. Ignoring the same disregard for the filthy prostitution business on the streets he regularly visits porno theatres - alone, you might add. In a city filled with millions of people he cannot make a connection. The identification of Betsy as a pure, white angel in a midst of black filth goes beyond sexual desire but as a metaphorical release from the setting - the romantic theme will then chime in, like a heavenly accompaniment lifting their connection beyond earthly pleasures (Herrman later uses these harp glissandos to indicate the same sort of ascension). But reality does not match this daydream of Bickle's. De Niro's performance excels not only because of his manic terror but in the quieter moments, his brief lapses of social understanding. The jokes hit a lull in the conversation, and disappear into awkward silence. The nervy, blank smile almost betrays his thoughts along with a tendency for his whole body to shiver with anticipation of his martyrdom. And in his feeble desperation at losing a rare connection, Scorsese pans away to an empty corridor because the state of Bickle is too embarrassing to behold.
The genius of Scorsese and Schrader is the sympathy they evoke from such a dangerous, loathing and psychotic individual. There is a spirited montage of him getting into shape, honing his marksmanship, and that infamous scene in the mirror that has been homaged countless times. The loneliness leaks through the tough, jaded exterior. And there are opportunities too, for him to relinquish the saviour role he has branded himself with, but which no person like Travis Bickle would take. The softly-spoken advice from a fellow cabbie, or that suggestive glance from Betsy that serves as his end redemption (which is a deliberate nod to the insanity of the perception of his crime - imagine how she would react had his assassination been successful). But he has killed the right people, so to speak, and is heralded for it whilst not truly finding satisfaction. Each of Chapman's compositions serve his increasing, nagging desire to clean the streets - even in the beginning as he applies for his license, his gaze is focused on an argument in the back mirror. And in his frustration and refusal to comprehend that Iris might not want to be saved, it seems there is little time between his next purge.