TAXI DRIVER
A bomb that is hidden beneath the simplest surface in a concrete jungle.
Human figures, vehicle shapes, buildings. In a rainy night, behind the distorted window of his taxi, Travis sees the city as it is. The night, the darkness, the human filth, the garbage, the mud, the piss, the shit. He feels that the more abstract his vision becomes, more he sees them as they are. He feels he doesn’t have to get a clear view.
A man endlessly searching for an identity. His motives unclear. His intent, even more so. His road could lead to many different directions. Is he danger to us or is he danger to himself?
The atmosphere will remind you Hitchcock & Welles’ uncomfortable tension, setting of Woody Allen’s Manhattan, Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, Jackson’s Thriller; plus 70, 80’s porn saxophone tune.
The score music by Bernard Herrmann is introduced to us to acknowledge and count the timing of a ticking bomb. A bomb that is hidden beneath the simplest surface in a concrete jungle: A taxi and its driver. Nobody knows when it first started ticking. Nobody knows who first ignited and planted it. Maybe it was already in us when we were born. Soft jazz introduces us to the warm pleasure of night life. It’s there to merely loosen the tension but it won’t stop the rage of the ticking bomb. Water from the rain and pipes can’t stop it. The spark is already lit and it keeps following the dark and humid road to achieve its purpose.
The story itself could be cut into a short film. It’s true, it could. But the feeling won’t be the same. You won’t feel the aggression, the tension, the depression, the boredom and loneliness like this in any other movie. Its pacing represents the stillness of the city life. Nothing ever changes. Not for the better. Not without miracles. Only quick things are the rising aggressions of the indecency, hustling, private businesses full of rush, sweat, cum and blood, all of which Travis cleans off his back seat.
In most of the shots, we always see him separated from the crowd or group of people. Either he is alone or his presence completes the scenery even when he isn’t part of the gathering. As the story goes on, his presence grows even harder to ignore right up until the moment he explodes.
To the rest of them, he is one pathetic misunderstanding and a sad cringy moment away from turning into a stranger. He’ll always have less chance than the people with more exterior values. It’s funny how people fear awkwardness more than a bad connection.
He’s a name of the people who got sick; he’s the Arabic number of people that died in the crash when you see news; he’s the dick you rejected at some party you don’t want to remember being at; he’s the embodiment of clothes walking in the streets when you see outside. He’s someone you’re so sure he’d stay in the same place when you look back. He’s anything but you and the people around you.
But like Patrick Bateman, he simply isn’t there. He endures the sound of silence like the Graduate. To him the humans are as replaceable as replicants to the Blade Runner. He’s simply an observant like Paterson but the difference is day and night. He is on a brink of collapse, like the street society he sees every night. But like Arthur Fleck, he is driven by something; something definitely not pleasure or happiness.
Easily misinterpreted and easily underestimated as a human being. No matter how scarred he is, nothing wounds him like his own expectation. It cripples him.
When he finally collects his courage to take a step forward to a human connection, he is sent backward two steps. He continues to retreat to his emotional and sociological concrete wall. Nobody knows who made him build it. So he takes a ride in the company of night air and cold metal doors and leather seats.
But like anyone else, he hopes to see the real you. He hopes it’s you talking to him. He hopes it’s you laughing at his jokes. He hopes it’s you breathing when he sees your collarbone moving. He’ll be a hero, he’ll be a villain; he’ll be anyone you wishes to see from your perspective.
Away from Cybill Shepherd’s alluring eyes in the mirror, he turns his attention forward and sees the city in front of him as clear as a day. The light, the dream, the human figures, a glimpse of hope…the mud, the piss, the shit. He notices everything. He is with everyone…
but nobody is with him.
