Instead, she acts like a bystander—or, as you say, an audience member at a violent movie. The monologue you cite, in which Holly wonders about what her life will be like in the future, suggests that she realizes that her current situation is finite, that she is not going to spend the rest of her life with Kit. There’s no romanticism in her, and no romanticism in Malick’s portrayal of the murderous couple. There’s little passion between Holly and Kit, little real feeling even. After Holly loses her virginity to Kit, she hilariously wonders if that’s what all the fuss was about; she’s a hard girl to impress. She reacts to everything with the same dead-eyed nonchalance, which makes her both strangely funny and almost sociopathic. A great example is the darkly humorous exchange that takes place after Kit shoots Cato. “I got him in the stomach,” he says. Holly doesn’t even flinch, she simply deadpans, “Is he upset?”
Malick seems to be deliberately working against the romantic stylization of the outlaw in the American cinema and popular literature. Kit wants to be James Dean and Holly acts as though all the murders happening around her can’t touch her, and together they stumble from one atrocity to the next, not so much evil as oblivious; they’re amoral rather than immoral. The film’s one real romantic gesture is only ironically romantic: the couple’s final ride towards the mountains is accompanied by Nat “King” Cole singing “A Blossom Fell,” a sweepingly romantic but melancholy song with saccharine strings that provides a slick counterpoint to the impending sense of doom hanging over the couple. They’re obviously heading towards the end, one way or another, but the pop beauty of the music is undercut by the continuing disconnection of the couple. While Kit determinedly rides towards the mountains, pretending he’s heading for freedom but knowing it’s almost all over for him, Holly sits next to him, dispassionately narrating Kit’s fears and staring blankly ahead, as though she’s simply waiting for all of this to be over. She’s seen this movie, and now she just wants the credits to roll.
JB: Holly is an interesting character study, to be sure. She’s so docile, so detached, and yet somehow she’s almost more disturbing than Kit, given all that she can endure without emotion. (At least Kit has rage.) Sissy Spacek’s performance is all freckles and blank stares. Her delivery of the narration has an unsophisticated quality that suggests the woman telling this story is only slightly more aware than the girl who lived through it. Spacek’s performance isn’t the kind of heavily acted turn that draws acclaim, but it’s perfect for the part. As shocking as it is to see Holly kneel down next to her wounded father without a hint of sorrow or anger, Spacek makes Holly’s passivity wholly convincing.
And then there’s Kit, who inspires one of the best performances of Martin Sheen’s career. It’s hard to think of another character who seems so tightly wound and yet so at ease. I love the scene in which Kit goes into a small recording booth to provide his explanation of the shooting—his face shifting rapidly from coldblooded intensity to blasé calm. I love the explosiveness with which Kit swings the gas can around Holly’s house, and the way he runs through the forest as if performing military drills. I love the paranoid awareness he exhibits high up in his tree house perch, scanning the forest for intruders. I love how in one shot Kit will strut through the frame, chin up, chest puffed out, exuding confidence, and in the next shot he’ll shuffle into the frame with his hands in his pockets, his head down and tilted toward a shoulder, as if he feels ashamed, shy or awkward. The movies are always giving us complicated killers, but it’s rare to encounter someone so evenly contradictory. (Usually, a killer’s violent streak ultimately outweighs any counterbalance.) Maybe that’s because Kit seems to be playing a role, transforming himself into his image of a runaway killer, eventually checking his hair in the mirror to make sure it looks right. One of my favorite details in the film is Holly’s note that Kit always forges his own signature—a sign that Kit doesn’t know who he is. “It takes all kinds,” Kit says more than once in the picture. But what kind is he?
By the end of the film, Kit seems as confident as ever. When he was on the run, he felt trapped, but now that he’s caught and in chains he seems at peace, delighted that so many people are now giving him the attention he so desperately needs. He’s found himself, climbed fully into his celebrity criminal role. Holly, on the other hand, seems as lost as before.
EH: Speaking of “conflicted killers,” it’s hard to watch Badlands without thinking of Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde, the film that provided an enduring cinematic template for this kind of criminal-couple-on-the-run picture. Malick is not often thought of as a genre filmmaker, but Badlands clearly belongs to the lineage of films like Bonnie and Clyde and Nicholas Ray’s They Live By Night, films about criminal romance, road movies punctuated with both violence and love scenes. In making Badlands, Malick is engaging with and in some ways subverting this tradition, just as he’d later engage with the tradition of the war movie in The Thin Red Line. Despite the similar subject matter, Badlands diverts from the example of Bonnie and Clyde in countless ways, starting with the unsentimental, unromantic depiction of the two central outlaws. Malick has some sympathy for his antiheroes, as we’ve already mentioned, but he doesn’t romanticize Kit and Holly the way Penn does with his robbers and murderers.
Malick also engages much more deeply with the sexual dynamics of this story. Penn’s Bonnie (as played by Faye Dunaway) is alternately a tough, sexually aggressive bad girl and a needy, clingy co-dependent—two opposing female stereotypes that she veers between throughout the film—while Holly is neither. What makes Holly interesting is that, unlike Bonnie, she’s a passive spectator to Kit’s crimes and killings, and yet she somehow seems more her own agent, her own individual person outside of the couple, than Bonnie ever does. She’s passive and docile, yes, but her passivity gives her a weird sort of independence, the antisocial independence of a woman who simply doesn’t much care about anything.
JB: That’s an interesting way of looking at her, and I see what you mean. To simply call Holly independent would be misleading, because even though Badlands is told through her narration, everything she says and does is a product of Kit: she leaves with him because he says so, takes her school books because he says so, even reconsiders her own feelings because he says so (“Kit said that ’solitude’ was a better word, ’cause it meant more exactly what I wanted to say”), and so on. But her ultimate indifference does individualize her to some degree: “the antisocial independence of a woman who simply doesn’t much care about anything.” Yeah, I think that’s right.
Your comparison to Bonnie is also a good one if for no other reason than because it leads us here: one of the things that makes Holly so peculiar is that even when she engages in stereotypically female concerns, she’s entirely unemotional about them. It’s unusual for female characters in movies to be unemotional in the first place, but it’s especially rare to see a female character so somber on the topics of love, marriage and sex. Holly talks about all those things at one point or another, and sometimes the words themselves seem passionate. But there’s no heartbeat behind those words. Holly flashes some flirtatious femininity the first time she meets Kit, and in that brief scene when they neck under the bleachers, but after that she regards him almost like a sibling. She’s unimpressed with her first sexual experience. She looks into the stereopticon and wonders about her future husband, which would be touching if not for the fact that she’s in the middle of a relationship when she does it. And as they escape north, she makes sure to note that it’s Kit who sees the mountains of Saskatchewan as a “magical land.” Kit’s the romantic one, not Holly. He’s the one who puts his devotion in writing and sends it off in a balloon. He’s the one who buries their possessions in the ground. He’s the one who makes Holly stop talking so they can dance to Nat “King” Cole. Kit is right: Holly is just along for the ride. And it’s unusual to encounter a female character on the big screen who is unsentimental and unfeeling not out of some feminist protest but out of absolute indifference.
But as far as unusual female narrators go, Holly is nothing compared to the one we meet in Malick’s next film, Days of Heaven. Depicting a love triangle on a Texas farm in the years leading up to the United States’ entry into World War I, Days of Heaven is narrated by a character who has both the naïveté of the young teenager she is and the worldliness of someone four or five times her age. Her name is Linda (Linda Manz), the younger sister of Richard Gere’s Bill, and she speaks with the vision of a poet and the broken vocabulary of an uneducated drifter. Her dialogue and narration demonstrate an obliviousness to the adult emotional warfare going on around her, and yet she also reveals an emotional connection to life’s big mysteries and underlying truths. In one scene she’ll describe the apocalypse or comment on the events on the farm as if she foresaw them. In the next she’ll interrupt a heartbroken friend who has been left by her boyfriend to ask about a scar on her ear. Like Holly in Badlands, Linda is both present within the story and beyond it, looking back. But unlike Holly she’s often commenting on events that seem to be beyond her line of sight. She’s an entirely unreliable witness, and yet somehow she always seems to stumble upon the truth.
EH: It’s certainly a very interesting style of narration, and it solidifies what would come to be Malick’s own distinctive approach to the voiceover, an aesthetic that would characterize all of his work. All of his narrators—Linda as well as the multiple narrators of The Thin Red Line and The New World—have that same mix of worldliness, naïveté and poetic grandeur. Linda, though, is something special. She has an illiterate, garbled way of speaking, an oddball accent that’s half urban tough and half rural drawl, which I suppose is appropriate for a Chicago youth who winds up spending a couple of years on a Texas farm. She speaks as though naïve, but one senses that she understands more than she lets on. She seems to have an intuitive grasp for the implications of what’s happening around her, even if she lacks the vocabulary—or maybe the desire—to express these feelings clearly.
When a small circus troupe visits the farm where she’s staying and puts on a show with comedy routines and silent movies, Linda narrates the scene with what at first seems to be another of her poetic non-sequiturs, a rambling speech about Satan and Hell: “The devil just sittin’ there laughin’. He’s glad when people does bad. Then he sends them to the snake house. He just sits there and laughs and watch while you’re sittin’ there all tied up in snakes that are eatin’ your eyes out. They go down your throat and eat all your systems out.” It’s a chilling speech, the meaning of which becomes clearer as the circus performance transitions into scenes of Bill whispering conspiratorially with his girlfriend Abby (Brooke Adams), who, pretending to be Bill’s sister, has married a rich, lonely and ailing farmer (Sam Shepard) in order to become his heir. While the farmer watches, growing suspicious of his bride and her “brother,” Linda’s narration suddenly returns for one final thought: “I think the devil was on the farm.”
The devil, it turns out, is Linda’s brother Bill, who leaves the farm for a year after this scene and then returns, ushering in the fire and bibilical plagues of the film’s climax. Linda, though, is philosophical about it all. After the tragedy and destruction of this climax, all she can say is, “Nobody’s perfect. There was never a perfect person around. You just got half devil and half angel in you.” To me, lines like these suggest that maybe Linda is not as oblivious or childlike as she sometimes seems. Does she really not understand the emotionally charged struggle taking place between Bill, Abby and the farmer? Or is all her talk of the devil a way of shifting the blame away from the human mistakes of Bill and Abby and onto a metaphysical evil force that can’t be seen?
JB: I suppose the reason it’s hard for me to accept that Linda appreciates what’s going on around her is that we never see her act accordingly. Linda’s voiceover is wise and seemingly all-knowing, but Linda herself, the young girl on the screen, never has a moment that suggests she gets it. In fact, there’s evidence that she doesn’t. In one scene, Linda walks with her friend through waist-high wheat and upon being asked if she has any siblings, answers that she only has a brother, Bill. In another scene, she tells the nosy and suspicious foreman that her brother came from Chicago and worked in a factory. In some of Linda’s initial narration, she points out the dangers of gossip and the need to protect one’s self, and yet that wisdom doesn’t trickle down to her actions. Instead, she blithely provides information that threatens to blow Bill’s elaborate plan. The most awareness that her physical character displays is when Linda asks Abby, “Why are you doing this?” But given the elliptical nature of Malick’s films, we can’t quite be sure what “this” is. Linda can obviously see that Abby is forming a relationship with Sam Shepard’s farmer, but she doesn’t know why. It’s beyond her. Only in the voiceover does she seem prescient. A little later in the film, Linda narrates, “Sometimes I feel very old, like my whole life’s over, like I’m not around no more.” Indeed, her narration seems to come from beyond the grave.
Speaking of things past, what I love most about Days of Heaven is the way it captures a bygone age. The movie is set in a time in which so much of western America remains untamed, a sense that Malick creates in part with all those shots of animals that evoke the western frontier: buffalo, pronghorn, elk, pheasant, peafowl, rabbits and so on. But even more significantly, the movie is set in an era in which communities were actually groups of people rather than geographical places, as they are today in violation of the true meaning of the word. What begins with that unforgettable shot of grubby drifters atop a freight train riding to wherever they can find work becomes touching portraits of communal life on the farm. In one incredible left-to-right pan we see someone basting a huge piece of meat on a spit, two guys performing acrobatic tricks and a guy swinging a lasso above his head. From there we cut to a man reading a book, and then a father putting a hat on his young child sitting in the grass and then a shot of Linda tap-dancing with a man on a wooden door while a guy in the background plays the harmonica. These depictions are multiracial and multicultural, and they are not without strife—Bill gets into one fight, and later we see two other guys wrestling in the dust—but they are dominated by a sense of shared experience. These people are all out for themselves, but they are all in it together.
EH: That’s true, and that idea goes hand in hand with Malick’s examination of socioeconomic realities and social strata. The film isn’t only a precise evocation of a previous era, it’s about a specific way of life in that era, about the experience of the poor, the homeless masses drifting from one place to another in search of any menial work they can find. The opening credits roll over a series of period still photos of lower-class people, sepia-toned and grimy, fading seamlessly at the end of the credits into the images of the industrial district where Bill works at the beginning of the film, shoveling coal, his face spotted with ash. Malick brings a sense of poetic visual grandeur to the drifters’ train journey—that shot of the train, a thin black line against a pale blue sky, chugging thick black smoke in its wake, is stunning—but he still powerfully conveys the squalor and the frustration of this lifestyle.
As in all of Malick’s work, beauty and natural splendor coexist with human suffering, and that suffering coexists with more joyful emotions as well. This is not a simplistic depiction of the degradation of poverty—there are countless scenes in which Bill, Abby and Linda find pleasure in their simple situation—but class tension is a big part of the film’s substance. Bill and Abby’s relationship is strained by their material circumstances, by the fact that they have no steady home, no steady work. When the harvest is nearly complete at the farm, Bill begins talking about heading to New York, and when Abby asks why he simply says, “to be there,” to see what will happen next, what they can do to get by. It’s obvious that they’re growing tired of this aimless, unsatisfying subsistence living.
It’s this lower-class life, of course, that Bill wants to escape when he concocts his scheme to exploit the farmer’s desire for Abby. And when the scheme works, the difference in lifestyles is striking, as Linda enthuses in voiceover. “We never been this rich, alright? I mean we were just, we were all of a sudden livin’ like kings. Just nothin’ to do all day but crack jokes, lay around. We didn’t have to work. I’m tellin’ you, the rich got it figured out.” (And the defensiveness embedded in that “alright?” is perhaps another sign of Linda’s understanding of this situation.) It’s a depiction of class that more or less contradicts the idea of the American dream, which says that if you work hard enough you can succeed and thrive. Instead, the film’s image of class in America equates poverty with hard work and wealth with idleness and languor.
JB: There’s a detachment to wealth, too. Granted, there’s only one wealthy character in this film, so it’s a little dangerous to assume that Malick means for Shepard’s farmer to symbolize every wealthy person. But the contrast between the impoverished and the wealthy is so extreme in this film that it’s obvious Malick means to comment on that gap. Shepard’s farmer has everything in this film in terms of material wealth, but he’s lacking in every other respect. His house on the hill is beautiful yet lonely. His caring foreman loves him like a son, and yet his adoptive manner only underlines the farmer’s solitude. In one scene, the farmer is told that after that year’s crop he’ll be “the richest man in the panhandle,” but the farmer responds to that information by peering silently through a telescope, a symbol of his remove. The drifters in this film are forced to live and sleep almost on top of one another, but in that physical closeness there is an emotionally strengthening bond that the farmer lacks. Indeed, it’s as if the supposedly terminal farmer is dying of loneliness, because as soon as Bill, Abby and Linda help him to create a family, his health improves. Similar to the way that Linda’s narration seems more worldly than the actual character, it’s worth noting that for all the times we’re told that the impoverished workers are miserable, they rarely actually seem it (other than Bill, that is). They work these pitiless, backbreaking jobs from dusk until dawn, day after day, and yet they seem surprisingly content, probably because they have no other choice. The point is, although the film is most idyllic in scenes like the one in which the farmer, Bill, Abby and Linda play baseball together—those precious days of heaven in the film’s title—there’s never a point in this film in which we envy the farmer.