For people of a certain age, doing a review of Smokey and the Bandit is about as necessary as reviewing Star Wars or the final episode of M*A*S*H.
That is to say, if you were alive when they came out, you didn’t even need to see it because everyone was talking about it (the series finale of M*A*S*H remains the most-watched show in television history).
Smokey and the Bandit falls into this category. It was the second-highest grossing film of 1977 (behind Star Wars) and came in ahead of such massive hits as Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Saturday Night Fever.
Indeed, if you want to feel depressed, simply look at how many crazy good films came out that year and then look at Hollywood’s current offerings. Talk about civilizational collapse.
At any rate, Smokey and the Bandit succeeded because it was a cultural statement, a national rallying point that captured the spirit of rebellion at the conclusion of the nation’s Bicentennial celebration. It was also an unadulterated celebration of American manhood.
Weapons-Grade Testosterone
Smokey and the Bandit checks every single masculine box. Burt Reynolds was at the time the epitome of manliness, a living legend and that it is fitting that his titular “Bandit” is also legendary, a trucking-driving demigod who has ballads written about his exploits. When he gets on the CB, all the ladies flirt with him, yet he remains grounded and relatable, comfortable in his majesty.
What kind of trucker is he? The kind who owns a customized hot-rod rig complete with a personalized wall mural-bedecked trailer. This is the 1970s redneck version of conspicuous consumption.
Jerry Reed plays his sidekick, and also provides the soundtrack, including the iconic “East Bound and Down,” which reached number 2 on the country music chart. A stud like Reynolds required a suitable leading lady, and who better than peak Sally Fields wearing skin-tight jeans? Their chemistry is palpable, and the two hooked up in real life, because of course. He’s Burt Reynolds!
One cannot imagine a guy like that driving a sedan. No, only the most 1970s of all 1970s muscle cars would do: a black Pontiac Trans Am with gold trim, T-top and the legendary firebird graphic on the hood. To say this car captured America’s imagination is an understatement. It was one of the greatest product placements in history, nearly doubling sales over the next two years. Bandit is so cool, his spotless cowboy had is not even ruffled when he does skid-turns and drifts around curve at 100 miles per hour.
Bootlegging ’70s Style
If one is going to have a bandit, he needs to commit a crime, yet at the same time, it has to something trivial, almost laughable. The writers found that in the odd situation Coors beer was in during the 1970s. Made in Colorado, it’s lack of preservatives (and therefore risk of spoilage) meant that it could only be sold within neighboring states, and this meant that there were no distributors east of Texas. Bringing a haul of beer to Georgia was technically bootlegging, that is to say the illegal movement of alcohol. The hook of the story is therefore a bet, made by Big Enos Burdette and his son, Little Enos (played by a hilariously bellicose Paul Williams). If Bandit can bring a truckload of beer from (as the song says) Texarkana to Atlanta in 18 hours, Big Enos will pay him $80,000. (Note that this is 1977 money, so worth a lot more than you think. The film has a scene where we learn two cheeseburgers and an ice tea cost $1.50.)
To accomplish the caper, Bandit demands the Burdette’s give him a top-notch “blocking” car, a decoy to keep the police from stopping (and inspecting) the truck. The Trans Am is therefore simply a tool, a means to an end rather than a status symbol.
That’s it, that’s the plot. After a very brief and efficient setup, it’s 96 minutes of car chases and smashups as Bandit lays waste to law enforcement across Dixie. In state after state, local police are outfoxed and usually wrecked in spectacular fashion while the Bandit drives on, his Trans Am not only surviving spinouts, jumping rivers and blasting through sheds and road signs, yet miraculously leaving it’s paint job immaculate.
Sheriff Buford T. Justice
If you’re going to have an legendary hero, you need an epic villain and Jackie Gleason’s “Sheriff Buford T. Justice” fills that role perfectly. Gleason was already a comedy legend, and Sheriff Justice (the titular “Smokey“) is the perfect caricature of an unreconstructed Dixiecrat Southern lawman – tough, determined, foul-mouthed and unafraid of beating up suspects. In a delightful twist, his son is getting married and Sally Field’s “Carrie” is the runaway bride. This not only adds a personal quest for vengeance on the part of the Sheriff, it pairs him a monumentally dimwitted sidekick, his son who is known only as “Junior” (played by Mike Henry). As the movie progresses, Gleason’s police cruiser takes more and more damage, yet somehow remains operational as he doggedly follows Bandit all the way to the finish line.
Gleason is said to have ad-libbed all his dialogue, simply remaining in character and reacting to the situation and what the other actors said. I suppose younger viewers might mind him strange and a bit odd, since racists are supposed to be the ultimate evil, but he is a of course a comic figure, and when I watched it with my daughter, she warmed to him to the point where she was laughing uproariously about just about every one of his ticks and mannerisms.
Rebel Sensibility, Conservative Morality
At its heart, the film is about rebellion, sticking it to The Man. At the time, a national speed limit had been imposed and truckers in particular hated having to “drive 55,” as songs of the period attest. A culture grew up around using CB radios to warn other motorists of speed traps and active patrols, and numerous TV shows (The Dukes of Hazzard) and films (Convoy) highlighted resistance to the law.
Smokey and the Bandit tapped into that spirit was followed by two sequels and Reynolds himself would star in Cannonball Run, another story of long-distance endurance driving that drew heavily on outfoxing the police.
Yet despite striking a rebel pose, the film is actually quite conservative in terms of language and nudity. It was rated PG, and does have plenty of swearing (mostly by Gleason) but when he drops an F-bomb, a truck horn bleeps it out, though it is not difficult to read his lips. Similarly, when Reynolds and Fields hook up, the scene might have been filmed under the Hayes Code – all they do is embrace and then the scene cuts to them sitting in the car fully clothed. Because Bandit makes it clear that he only takes his hat off for one thing, the shot of it perched on the car antenna combined with Fields’ clear afterglow tells us all we need to know.
In relatively short order, films like this would have had a much more intense physical encounter, and perhaps earn an R rating for actual nudity. However, Smokey and the Bandit is modest enough that even network television was more racy.
And come to think of it, the theme of flouting government rules has also come full circle, with conservatives demanding more freedom while nominal liberals demand respect for authority. The film may be dated in many ways, but the theme is quite relatable, the action is fun, and of course it’s a laugh riot with a huge heaping of masculinity. Put simply, if wanted a car-chase movie that was the complete opposite of crushingly woke Mad Max: Furiosa, this is your film.
****
English (US) · 