Duel

"There you are, right back in the jungle again." 

—David Mann (Dennis Weaver)

The Aero Theater in Santa Monica, CA, recently ran a film series entitled "Auspicious Debuts".  This series featured the first flicks of famous filmmakers.  (Say that five times fast!)  Included in the series were David Lynch's Eraserhead (1977), Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead (1981), and Spike Jonze's Being John Malkovich (1998) (which was also screenwriter Charlie Kaufman's first movie).

Also a part of the series was what I consider to be one of the best double-features I've ever seen (and I've paid good money to see Pitch Perfect 2 b/w Mad Max: Fury Road at the drive-in!)...

Hey, buddy! Run, don't walk to the box office and get yerself a ticket!

While I am a fan of George Lucas's dystopic science fiction debut, THX 1138 (1971), this particular evening's trip to the movies was all about seeing Steven Spielberg's small screen masterpiece, Duel (1971), on the big screen.  Watching Dennis Weaver twitch and sweat his way through the back roads of California with a crazed truck driver on his tail was pretty intense on my old 9-inch TV.  How twitchy and sweaty would he look when he's 38 feet tall and 18 feet wide? 

Let's find out by taking a closer look...

Twitchy and sweaty.

David Mann (Dennis Weaver) is a white-collar worker who has left the comfy confines of his office in the city and hit the road on a business trip.

Of course as the movie begins, we don't know any of this —  who our protagonist is, what he does for a living, where he is going and why — because for the first five minutes of the film we are only privy to one thing: that we are in motion.  For much of the beginning of Duel, the viewer sees only what our protagonist sees.

In fact, for the first five minutes of the movie, we are the protagonist: we back out of the garage and pull onto the streets of our neighborhood, we drive through the city and dodge traffic and pedestrians while the downtown buildings loom over us, we merge onto the the freeways that take us out of town and into the countryside.  (Unfortunately, I don't think we get our S.A.G. card or even a paycheck for any of this.)

We could even take this a little further and say that our identification at the beginning of the film is not with the driver at all, but with the car itself.  The camera sits rather low, below the eye level of the vehicle's operator.  When we come upon another car, its bumper and license plate is directly ahead of us, not its rear windshield.  Our point-of-view, then, is not with Mann but with his machine.

(Don't worry, folks, I have a Masters Degree in Film Studies.  I am a professional; you are in good hands.)

Slow and low, that is the tempo.

While we move from the city to the country, the movie's soundtrack is morning, "drive time" radio.  The incessant gabble of traffic, weather, sports, commercials, and news that flows from the car's speakers proves one thing: "morning zoo" radio was just as lame in 1971 as it is today.

One of the shows we listen to is a disc jockey who calls the census bureau pretending to have a question about whether or not he should register as the head of the household:

"I lost the position as head of the family...I stay at home. I hate working...So, she works, and I do the housework and take care of the babies and things like that...I'm really not the head of the family, and yet I'm the man of the family. Although there are people who would question that."

As the woman on the other end of the phone tries to help the DJ save his masculinity, the camera moves inside the car, and we get our first glimpse of David Mann in the rearview mirror.

Duel's screenplay was written by Richard Matheson (based on his short story that was published in Playboy magazine in April 1971).  The loss of masculinity's power in the 20th century is a subject that Matheson tackled in several of his stories, most notably in his 1956 novel The Shrinking Man.  Introducing the character of David Mann in conjunction with a male radio show host discussing the lost position of men in the American family, then, is no mistake.  Masculinity and power (and who wields it) is something that Duel will deal with again and again.  Indeed, it is not too long after Mann's introduction that the first test of his manhood occurs.

As the DJ blathers on, Mann comes upon a truck.  It is a gas or oil tanker, and it looks like it has been in use since the days of George Bissell and Edwin Drake.  Emblazoned across its back, not once, but twice, is the word "Flammable."  Mann's shiny, little, red car — a Plymouth Valiant — is dwarfed by the rusty, exhaust-bellowing behemoth as he approaches it.  With the truck spewing greasy, black smoke in his grill the way sand is kicked into the face of the 98-pound weakling in a Charles Atlas ad, Mann puts the pedal to the metal and zips past his tormentor.

If only getting rid of bullies was as easy as doing a few exercises in front of the mirror at home or speeding past them on the road, eh, David Mann?

Thinking that he'd left the smelly ol' truck in his rearview, Mann is very surprised when the truck, in turn, passes him.  Unaware of what lies in wait for him over the rest of the day, Mann attempts a little vehicular oneupmanship and passes the truck again. As Mann speeds away, the truck's horn screams its frustration and anger.  Mann turns to look at the truck, and for the first time (but certainly not the last) he looks a little worried.  "Just what have I gotten myself into here?" he seems to be wondering.

"Chief?..."

It must be pointed out that in Matheson's original script, Mann's car is described as "a low-power, economy model."  In other words, he doesn't drive a gas-guzzling "muscle" car; he drives a fuel-efficient compact.  In a country like America, where conspicuous consumption rules and one's belongings are a sign to others of one's status, Mann's choice of "a low-power, economy model" car is a symbol of his lack of power — physically and economically.  He may try to outrun the big boys, but they'll catch him in the end. And when they do...look out, David Mann.

Mann pulls into a gas station.  As he exchanges some witty repartee with the attendant (Mann: "Just fill it with ethyl."  Gas Jockey: "If Ethyl don't mind!"  Har-har-har.), who should come pulling into the station, but Mann's road buddy.  Mann sits in his car contemplating the truck, perhaps even waiting for the tough guy to climb down out of his cab and give him a hard time.  Instead, the trucker just sits there...waiting...

This is one of the places where Duel really excels: the sense of mystery surrounding this truck and its driver.  Spielberg never shows much more of the driver than a beefy arm or a cowboy-booted foot.  (We catch sight of a face briefly when Mann passes the truck, but this is only fleeting.)  There's never an explanation.  And it's this lack of motivation that really turns the screws on the viewer.  Who is this guy?  Why is he doing this to poor McCloud?  Like trying to find out how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop, the world may never know.  And that's where real terror dwells.

I'm sure if this movie were remade for today's audiences, we'd be given the whole backstory of the truck driver.  We'd have to know all the whys and wherefores.  Say, maybe the driver is Gerrit Graham's character from Robert Zemeckis's 1980 picture, Used Cars?  My god, that's it!  He hates red cars so much, he'll force them all off the road!

It's at the gas station that we're given some foreshadowing and another glimpse at the precarious grasp that men had on their masculinity in the early days of the Women's Lib Movement:

Attendant: “Looks like you could use a new radiator hose.” 

Mann: “Where have I heard that before? I'll get one later.” 

Attendant: “You're the boss.” 

Mann: “Not in my house, I'm not.”

Mann asks the attendant to use the phone.  He drops a dime and calls his wife.  As he talks to her, we get fed a little more information. For instance, Mann is taking this particular road trip to get to a hard-to-please client who is leaving for Hawaii the next day.  It is intimated that Mann's success in reaching this client will have some bearing on his status in his office.  He just has to reach his destination or else his position as breadwinner is in jeopardy.

We also learn that Mann's wife is angry at him for not sticking up for her at a dinner party the night before:

Mann: “I'm sorry about last night.” 

Wife: “I don't really want to talk about it.” 

Mann: “Well, don't you think maybe we ought to?” 

Wife: “No, because if we talk about it, we'll fight, and you wouldn't want that, would you?  Of course not.” 

Mann: “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Wife: “Oh, never mind.” 

Mann: “Just a minute.  I know what it's supposed to mean.  It means you think I should go out and call Steve Henderson up and challenge him to a fistfight or something.” 

Wife: “No, of course not.  But you could have at least said something to the man.  I mean, after all, he practically tried to rape me in front of the whole party.” 

Mann: “Oh, come on, honey.” 

Wife: “Just forget it.”

Things ain't looking too good for ol' Davey Mann's manhood, are they?  Not only is his position in the office teetering on the edge of ruin — "If I don't reach him today, I could lose the account." — but his ability to protect his loved ones at home is being called into question, as well.

This entire conversation is taking place in a laundromat attached to the gas station.  Spielberg places his camera in an interesting position: beyond the washers and dryers with Mann framed in the doorway, beyond which sits the truck.  As he talks to his wife, a woman enters the laundromat, walks past Mann, and opens the dryer to remove her clothes.  Shot in this way, Mann is literally caught between a frock and a hard place.

That's right.  I said it.

It's early days yet in Duel, but already, through the superior use of sound, dialogue, editing and camerawork, the viewer knows exactly what is at stake for David Mann.  Steven Spielberg was only 24-years-old when he directed this movie, and for a filmmaker this young to have such control of his craft is quite remarkable.  Of course, it helps to have a stable of thoroughbreds at your service (Richard Matheson writing your screenplay, Dennis Weaver in front of the camera, Jack A. Marta behind it), but it takes a very talented person to hold the reins on those artistic horses and get them to go where he/she wants them.  Mystery writer and ex-jockey Dick Francis once told Kurt Vonnegut (who was surprised that Francis was bigger than he'd imagined him to be) that it took a big man to hold a horse together during a steeplechase.  Duel is a cinematic steeplechase, a grueling race filled with harrowing obstacles.  Only fifteen minutes in, and Spielberg has shown us that he is a big enough man to hold this particular horse together.

Over the next 75 minutes, the stakes keep rising for David Mann (and the viewer).  He is chased up and down mountain roads at speeds close to 100 m.p.h.!  He's forced off the road and laughed at by rednecks!  He has to dodge the truck...and rattlesnakes...while on foot!  Heck, at one point, he has to make a desperate telephone call while some skinny, beardless kid and a camera crew watch him!  I can only imagine what it was like to see Duel on TV on that fateful November night in 1971.  With every commercial break, the viewer had to be asking him/herself, "What on earth is gonna happen to this poor guy next?" 

Yes, I see you out there, Steven, and, no, you can't use the phone!

At the screening I attended at the Aero, the audience shifted in their seats, moaning and groaning uncomfortably, as the truck driver cut Mann off every time he tried to pass.  A woman sitting behind me gasped aloud as the truck driver motioned for Mann to pass him on a twisting mountain road only for an oncoming car, coming around a blind corner, to nearly hit him head-on.  Like Mann, she whispered, "My God!" as she realized that the trucker meant for Mann to hit the other driver.  With every escalation in road rage, the audience became more tense and more focused on seeing what was coming round the corner next.

Editor Frank Moriss deserves a lot of credit for keeping a good rhythm during these sequences.  Without resorting to today's quickie-cut school of editing (where a single shot never seems to stay around longer than a second - no matter what emotion the scene is trying to convey), Moriss uses fast-slow editing patterns to keep the audience, like Mann, off balance.  As Mann's anger builds, as he approaches the truck and is rebuffed, the editing begins to speed up.  In those moments when Mann pulls away from truck, the editing slows down, giving the audience time to breathe, to think, like Mann, it's over.

Apparently, Gregory Peck was originally up for the role of David Mann.  When Universal could not get him, Dennis Weaver was chosen, and the film, instead of being made as a feature film for release to theaters, was given the green light as a made-for-tv movie.  As much as I love Gregory Peck, I don't think anyone plays arrogant, paranoid loser quite like Weaver.  For one thing, his voice is higher-pitched than Peck's, and it breaks whenever he gets emotional or starts whining about something.  Not only does Duel look at the state of men and manhood in the 1970s, it also is a study of the dichotomies between the city vs. the country, white-collar vs. blue-collar, civilization vs. barbarity.  Gregory Peck is Atticus Finch, for crying out loud!  I could see him being able to take quite good care off himself out there on the open road.  Dennis Weaver, on the hand, stinks of panic sweat throughout.  He's losing ground in the office and at home, and now he's got a lunatic wielding a truck like a loaded gun to deal with.  As the movie progresses, Weaver exudes a hysteric desperateness that is perfect for the character of David Mann.

Duel builds to a satisfying crescendo that is both cathartic and bleak.  Like Wes Craven's The Hills Have Eyes (1977) or Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs (1971), we get the gratification of seeing the weak hero become strong for the final stand, but there is a cost for such a victory.  In order to defeat brutality, we sometimes have to become just as brutal, and it is cold comfort to be the last man standing.  Come the end of the film, Mann scampers on the edge of a cliff, as well as the edge of his own sanity and humanity.

It is interesting that both THX 1138 and Duel end with similar shots.  In both, the main characters are framed with the setting sun behind them.  In Lucas's film, the hero has emerged from underground into the open air.  He has escaped a repressive society and taken his first steps in to freedom.  In Duel, Mann sits on the edge of cliff tossing rocks at his defeated enemy.  In both films, the setting sun suggests that hard earned victories are never what we think they will be.  It's a powerful image, one that seems to say that sometimes, when we least expect it, circumstances show us that we aren't as evolved as we like to think we are.  As David Mann says, "There you are, right back in the jungle again."

THX 1138

 

Duel