Review of Dirty Real in Journal of Popular Film and Television (December 2024)

The Last Movie montage from Seventeen (July 1970)

From the late 1960s into the mid-1970s, the traditional wellspring of American cinema was threatened, redirected, and ultimately enriched by the emergence of what came to be known as “New Hollywood.” This was an era in which young filmmakers, actors, musicians, and other creatives carved out a cultural niche which still endures in the imagination and aspirations of many people across the globe almost 60 years later. It is this epoch which animates Peter Stanfield’s Dirty Real: Exile on Hollywood and Vine with the Gin Mill Cowboys, published by Reaktion Books.

The titular “Dirty Real” refers to a decidedly bohemian lifestyle which could include a rootless existence with spartan lodgings when on the road, a cultivated inattentiveness to appearance (clothes/hair/hygiene), conspicuous and guilt free pleasure seeking (sex/drugs/alcohol), and a rejection of the establishment (school/work/family/capitalism), all of which represented an alternative version of that great American ambition, freedom. It was this aesthetic, manifest in the setting, plot, characterization, and soundtracks of several dozen films in the late 1960s-early 1970s which Stanfield posits as the core of the “Dirty Real” canon.

A running theme in the book is the quest for the authentic “dirt,” a commodity which the filmmakers and actors took great pride in pursuing, accomplishing and presenting to an audience with an appetite for such fare and apparently an ambition or fantasy to pursue that life for themselves. Nonetheless, Stanfield argues that these actors, directors, writers, and their productions fell short of legitimacy. In its filmic form it was modification, affectation and ultimately commodification of the genuine Dirty Real. On the faux authenticity of the Dirty Real filmmakers, Stanfield proclaims “the trick they pulled off was to suggest they had gained it by hard-scrabble labour, from experience earned on the road, with sweat and dirt honestly come by. In self-defined exile, with their privilege hiding in plain sight, they had this tale to tell, and they told it with glorious, splendid elan” (40).

The author also notes that this emerging genre was not fully original, but rather inspired by old archetypes which were re-booted in the late 1960s and early 1970s. For example, in New Hollywood’s contemporary action films, the lead characters rode motorcycles and drove souped-up cars (Easy Rider, Bonnie and Clyde, Two-Lane Blacktop), and in the new historical westerns (The Hired Hand, The Wild Bunch, Dirty Little Billy, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid) the cowboys and criminals were often morally ambiguous misfits whose licentiousness, remorseless violence, and anti-social behavior is often accepted without the judgement and punishment that was expected in Old Hollywood productions. Stanfield also marks a mid-sixties revival in the iconic films and persona of Humprey Bogart as a benchmark in the rise of Dirty Real. As he remarks, “For the film-makers of New Hollywood, Bogart was not only a figure they might identify with, he was also someone they would refract in their own anti-heroes” (13), albeit in films that were infused with unfettered permissiveness (sex and violence), unvarnished cynicism, ambiguous heroism and without the obligatory happy or just ending.

In one final blow to authenticity of the Dirty Real film community, Stanfield notes the symbiotic, or was it mutually parasitic, relationship between the new American cinema and the rock/pop music of the era. It seems the Dirty Real “street cred” of New Hollywood was enhanced by the close association with the world of pop-rock music, particularly in the eyes of a youthful audience. Putting aside the possible appropriation of pop music’s hip grittiness, it is hard to imagine many of the most iconic films of this era without their rock soundtrack, and it seems beyond question that the music enhanced both the films and the status of the musical acts. One of the unexpected and defining elements of Dirty Real is Stanfield’s analysis of the role of popular music in many of the films and the way the pop/rock culture informed the Dirty Real aesthetic.

The book has eight chapters bookended by a scene setting introduction and brief conclusion. Each chapter is thematic and anchored by a focus on one or more films: Chapter One: The Hired Hand; Chapter Two: The Last Movie; Chapter Three: The Last Picture Show, Five Easy Pieces, and Payday; Chapter Four: The Shooting, Ride in the Whirlwind, and Two-Lane Blacktop; Chapter Five: Cisco Pike; Chapter Six: Dirty Little Billy; Chapter Seven: McCabe and Mrs Miller; Chapter Eight: Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.

The Hired Hand

The analysis in the chapters is comprehensive in its coverage of each film and its place within the genre and in the zeitgeist of the era. This includes a detailed account of the film’s plot, in-depth character studies, as well as a deconstruction of the central conflicts which drive the story and motivate each role. Stanfield also adroitly links elements of these “dirty” films with dozens of other productions from various decades. Ample time is also dedicated to how the films were received after release, encompassing film critics, box office receipts and the engagement of the general public. Readers who enjoy behind the scenes content will find details on financing, casting, inter-personal drama, and the jockeying for credit and acclaim in the face of success. Additionally, the author offers an examination of many of the actors, writers, and directors who rose to fame in the New Hollywood, in what amount to mini era-specific biographies of personalities such as Jack Nicholson, Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, Peter Bogdanovich, Monte Hellman, James Taylor, Kris Kristofferson, Robert Altman, Sam Peckinpah, and Bob Dylan. This list of people highlights the predominance of white males in this era, a fact to which the author alludes but does not extensively analyze.

Stanfield supports his narrative with ample endnotes for each chapter, including sources ranging from academic publications to contemporary periodicals to memoirs and mass market biographies. Additionally, there is a bibliography and selected filmography which highlights the films discussed in the text. The book is also populated by thirty-two illustrations presenting movie posters, commercial ads, album covers, and movie stills.

Dirty Real offers great utility in an array of academic disciplines including American Studies, Media/Communications, Musicology, and Film Studies at both the undergraduate and graduate levels. The book would also be of interest to cinephiles and general audiences because of its engagement with iconic films, music, and cultural touchstones and characters who retain a measure of recognition and relevance fifty years after their artistic hightide began to ebb.

Stanfield’s great accomplishment with Dirty Real is to highlight and cut through the posing pretentiousness of these filmmakers, actors and writers to reveal the cultural/social artifice that imbued so much of the 1960s–1970s New Hollywood filmography. Yet he also manages to express his admiration for their artistic endeavors; he does not discount the quality, value, and impact of many of these films. As Stanfield says, “The films’ characters, as with the actors, writers and directors, were costumed in the pitch that defileth and showed too an acute nostalgia for the gutter none had known at first hand. For a cool moment they almost turned Hollywood into an image of themselves” (8–9).

Madison Ave gets Dirty Real: Left, Dirty Little Billy director Stan Dragoti. Middle, Jack L. Warner, producer, and Cheryl Tiegs, Sports Illustrated cover star and married to Dragoti

Michael McKenna – professor of history, politics, and geography at Farmingdale State College

Ugly Things on the Dirty Real

Two new reviews of Dirty Real . . . Frank Uhle has penned the one for Ugly Things and David Pitt for The Booklist. Uhle is the author of Cinema Ann Arbor, which is one of the best film books of this or any other decade, so colour me happy to read his positive take on my book. Pitt’s summary is equally pleasing:

"Stanfield is a perceptive and graceful writer; he imparts knowledge to the reader while never sounding like he is lecturing. ... While this is a period of film history that has been written about before, Stanfield's expertise and depth of knowledge make it feel like this is something we're seeing for the first time."

Dirty Real – The Wall Street Journal Knows . . .

As the 1960s ended, dirty was the thing to be. Uncleanliness was next to earthiness, and earthiness meant authenticity. After "The Dirty Dozen" (1967), movie-theater marquees bloomed with filth. Soon came "Dirty Heroes" (1967), then the Frank Sinatra vehicle "Dirty Dingus Magee" (1970) and then, most memorably, "Dirty Harry" (1971). Other movies, if not exactly smash hits, sounded the theme: "Dirty Little Billy" (1972), "Dirty Weekend" (1973), "The Dirty Dolls" (1973), "Dirty Mary Crazy Larry" (1974). Around the same time, boomer taste decreed that the artistic output of previous generations was irreparably phony, so young revolutionaries set out to find new ways to contrive verisimilitude—to make their artifice "real." To bring some sense to these linked fixations is the pursuit of "Dirty Real: Exile on Hollywood and Vine With the Gin Mill Cowboys," an essay collection by Peter Stanfield, a professor emeritus of film at the University of Kent. His focus is mostly on what might be called the meta-westerns—or anti-westerns, or acid westerns—of the late 1960s and early '70s. These works commented on or subverted the conventions of the genre, sometimes straying into the foggy realm of the experimental.

Mr. Stanfield's takes are entertaining, erudite without being abstruse, and often amusingly contrarian. They have the feel of an academic version of Quentin Tarantino riffing on the hidden themes of his favorite obscure movies, pausing from time to time to sample from critical opinion and toss in some behind-the-scenes gossip. A Life magazine reporter visiting the set of Dennis Hopper's "The Last Movie" (1971) observed that "by 10 p.m. almost 30 members of the company were sniffing coke or had turned on with grass, acid or speed" and was startled to find an unknown young woman in a drenched nightgown standing on a ledge outside his window in the rain asking, "Do you mind if I come in?" After "Easy Rider", starring Peter Fonda and Hopper (who also directed), proved to be an unexpected box-office sensation in 1969, ancient studio bosses, hopelessly out of touch with the youth culture, either departed the scene voluntarily or found themselves pushed out. The Fondas and Hoppers took over, like court jesters handed the keys to the kingdom.

And how did they do? They lived up to the verdict on the 1960s that Fonda delivered in "Easy Rider": "We blew it." In "The Last Movie," Hopper plays a movie stunt coordinator working on location in Peru (where indeed "The Last Movie" was shot). The film was meant to serve as a harsh commentary on America's alleged depredations as a colonial power, but Hopper took the critique "to another level," Mr. Stanfield writes admiringly. Hopper implicated himself and his film crew "as being equally guilty in the process of destabilizing and despoiling an indigenous culture and society in the name of his art and the financiers who . . . bankrolled his movie." Nearly everyone loathed the film, which was barely released. "Every bit as indulgent, cruel and thoughtless as the dream factory films it makes such ponderous fun of," declared Vincent Canby in the New York Times. Hopper found himself escorted from Hollywood's throne to its doghouse. He wouldn't direct a film again for nine years. Yet Mr. Stanfield makes us want to see his infamous failure for ourselves: "If Hopper's modernist aesthetic was secondhand, a set of borrowed elements from the avant-garde . . . in the context of a well-resourced Hollywood movie it was nevertheless utterly unique."

Mr. Stanfield is splendid in his exegeses, not least in such films as "The Hired Hand" (1971, starring and directed by Fonda) and "The Shooting" (a 1966 Monte Hellman film that starred Jack Nicholson and Warren Oates). He makes both of these forgotten items sound vital and meaningful. Hidden within "The Hired Hand," a leisurely film in which Fonda and Oates play two wanderers who stop at the home of the Fonda character's estranged wife, Mr. Stanfield finds a meta-theme about cycles of return: "The story places beginnings up against endings, motifs of leaving echoed as returns, moments of drift refigured at their most amorphous as points of decision." Similarly, "The Shooting"—a baffler in which two men (Oates and Will Hutchins) and a gunslinger (Mr. Nicholson) are hired by a mysterious unnamed woman for a tracking expedition that seems to lead nowhere except a fatal shootout—strikes Mr. Stanfield as an existential tale of nihilism and despair. Though it showed at a French film festival in 1966, American audiences didn't get a look at it until its modest general release in 1972. "Vagueness and doubt, enigma and mystery, questions without answers run through the film as if they were a vein of pyrite, attractive in itself but still fool's gold," writes Mr. Stanfield, not disapprovingly. What was supposed to be the journeyman Hellman's breakthrough as director, a car-racing movie and disguised western called "Two-Lane Blacktop" (1971), also turned out to be too arty by half. Despite Esquire calling it "the movie of the year," it wasn't "the cultural event its financial backers thought they were buying," writes the author, but rather a film with a "dedicated sense of ennui and estrangement." Hellman (who died in 2021 at age 91) never did have a hit, though Mr. Tarantino is a fan. Notional revolutions sometimes have a way of sputtering out. Mr. Stanfield notes that in the 18 months it took Hopper to edit "The Last Movie" in 1970-71, taste had already begun to change. By 1973, when Sam Peckinpah's anti-western "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid" flopped ("a film about the monetization of the West"), the culture was feeling nostalgic for simpler times: "The Sting," "Paper Moon" and "American Graffiti" all appeared in 1973 too. No one wondered what any of them were about. The punks and rebels learned what many other artists have discovered to their frustration: The audience gets a say in how your career goes.

By Kyle Smith

Mr. Smith is the Journal's film critic.

What you want and what you get are two different things: Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid on Criterion Blu-Ray and 4K UHD

It’s fifty years since Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid’s theatrical release in 1974; a truncated version of Peckinpah’s vision for the film. It’s now thirty-six years since the first of two preview versions played the art house circuit. These two cuts were the last the director worked on before walking away following demands to trim down its running length. Seventeen years later, in 2005, that longer cut was released on a DVD supplemented with a ‘Special Edition’ that had the ambition to tidy-up the preview spools and present something closer to what the editors understood Peckinpah would have ended up with if left to his own devices.

Now Criterion has pulled together the final preview cut on Blu-Ray, its first digital airing, and 4K UHDs of the original release and yet another attempt to make the best of what Peckinpah left behind. If I’ve counted right this means five versions are now available on DVD, Blu-Ray and 4K UHD.

 

Neither the 2005 Special Edition or Fiftieth Anniversary cut are produced with the Peckinpah aficionado in mind. They are for the general viewer looking for a more polished assembly, the Anniversary issue especially so. It is like a Steve Wilson remix of some classic album presented anew in Dolby Atmos – designed to appeal to those with the latest home cinema set up and to be sold to streaming platforms.

 The latest re-edit by Peckinpah’s most diligent biographer, Paul Seydor, and original editor Roger Spottiswoode will be to some an act of welcome gentrification; a necessary clean-up and rebooting – a more aesthetically conventional spectacle. For myself, it is the lesser of all available versions. I get that the two preview cuts have their longueurs, scenes that drag on just a might too long, awkward transitions, irregularities in colour and light, jarring edits, redundant dialogue, which if he hadn’t thrown in the towel, Peckinpah would certainly have edited down. But, as it now stands, too many of the trims and the general prettifying of the image and the soundtrack just strike me as egregious. None more so than shortening the opening framing device of Garrett’s assassination and losing the closing frame altogether in the posthumous editions.

 

In his definitive history of the film, Seydor gives a sterling defence of the decisions they took in producing the 2005 version and those justifications could just as well be used for the latest iteration. One can get somewhat disorientated and dismayed trying to figure out what’s present and what’s missing with each release, but each better helps elucidate whatever ideal the viewer has in mind.

For myself, I’m just glad there are people out there who care enough to make sure the film is available and readily accessible to all who want to watch it in whatever cut they choose.

Fact is, it was always one big beautiful mess of a film. Just like Iggy and the Stooges’ Raw Power, in whichever mix, it was enhanced by the disarray, false steps and bad choices in both its recording and release – good art, especially film and pop, never reaches for perfection; its ambition is to corrupt the absolute – to tear it up. Filmmakers are, or should be, in the more lowly business of figuring out how, in Samuel Fuller’s immortal words, you can ‘grab ‘em by the balls’. Regardless of the edit, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is what Fuller would call a ‘pisscutter’ of a movie.

Dirty Real – Cultural Rhapsody

A review of Dirty Real in Library Journal.


“In a challenging cultural rhapsody about the gritty authenticity characterizing films following the hippie era of the 1960s, Stanfield (emeritus, film, Univ. of Kent; Maximum Movies) posits that the 1970s presented problem-based rather than escapist entertainment vehicles. Actors like Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda, Jack Nicholson, Jon Voight, and Jeff Bridges personified a bohemian reality in Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces, Midnight Cowboy, and The Last Picture Show. Stanfield usefully presents minute analyses of lesser-known films of this genre, including Ride in the Whirlwind, The Shooting, The Last Movie, The Hired Hand, and Dirty Little Billy. As with many eras, the themes of 1970s cinema do not precisely correspond to eras; antiheroes, usually loners, already existed in biker, working-class, and Western films of the 1950s. Stanfield references The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, released in 1948, as an influence over the era. He also examines how the lifting of the Production Code in 1968 resulted in greater openness in films.

VERDICT A challenging meditation on nonconformity in mid-20th-century cinema that includes a filmography list influenced by Italian and French New Wave cinema. Cultural critics might enjoy this book more than general readers.”

Reviewed by Frederick J. Augustyn Jr , May 01, 2024

https://www.libraryjournal.com/review/dirty-real-exile-on-hollywood-and-vine-with-the-gin-mill-cowboys-1806175

Dirty Real – Deadline May 13, 2024

Dirty Real is published on May 1st . . .

Publisher’s Weekly has had a head start:

Dirty Real: Exile on Hollywood and Vine with the Gin Mill Cowboys

Peter Stanfield. Reaktion, $25 (344p) ISBN 978-1-78914-862-6

Stanfield (A Band with Built-In Hate), a film professor emeritus at the University of Kent, delivers a discerning deep dive into counterculture films of the late 1960s and early ’70s. According to Stanfield, such actors as Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson played down the glamour that had previously characterized Hollywood stars in favor of grittier personas that reflected an emerging understanding that movies were no longer “means of escape but a means of approaching a problem.” Astute analysis of key films of the era reveal how they tackled topical issues. For instance, Stanfield contends that Fonda’s The Hired Hand (1971) used the western genre as a backdrop to promote themes of female empowerment, and that Bob Rafelson’s Five Easy Pieces (1970) regards with distrust the “bourgeois slumming” of its protagonist, who maintains the privileges of his middle-class background despite seeking out a more “authentic” lifestyle working in oil fields. Stanfield shares Rafelson’s skepticism toward the period’s vogue for authenticity, suggesting that leading actors, writers, and directors showed “an acute nostalgia for the gutter none had known at first hand,” and that the predominantly white casts portrayed a “social realism [that] did not include the reality, or even fantasy, of black lives.” It’s a sharp study of the contradictions of post–flower power cinema.

https://www.publishersweekly.com/9781789148626