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In its tiny, limited way, this is an astonishing piece of work. Stacey contrasted it with its sequels by calling it a 'real movie', but I wouldn't put it that way: it's a drive-in movie all right, with all the sex, guns, cars and cops that implies. But it's also got, let's see, uniformly excellent, low-key performances; the kind of local colour that is impossible for a studio production to capture, with juicy layers of deep-South detail; an organic, fluid narrative structure that keeps surprising you; inspired camera work and even clever blocking for God's sake; and what comes down to a pacifist, anti-authoritarian (and anti-racist) world view that is pervasive without being over-articulated. Unapologetically trashy, yet clearly under the influence of the Hellmann/Pakula school of early-70s existential angst, this is a genuine and successful synthesis, urgently needed proof that brains and cojones can live in one body, even if that body belongs to Jethro Clampett.
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